DUKE 

UNIVERSITY 


LIBRARY 


. 


*  • 

■ 


* 


REIGN  OF  BLOUSE. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2018  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


https://archive.org/details/battlesummer01  mite 


»• :  -  rrrrtss&ZZ&te?:-'"  -- 


/ 


THE 


BATTLE  SUMMER: 

*  X 

BEING 


Transcripts  from  personal  observation  - 

In  IjJaris, 


During  the  Year 

/ 


1848. 

MvfcKen.D.Qr, 

By  Ik.  Marvel, 

Author  of  Fresh  Gleanings 


*  *  Le  Monde  est  inepte  a  se  guarir !  II  est  si  impatient  de  ce  qui  lo 
presse,  qu’il  ne  vise  qu’a  s’en  deffaire,  sans  regarder  \  quel  prix.  *  *  le 
bien  ne  succede  pas  necessairement  an  mal ;  un  autre  mal  luy  peut  succeder ; 
et  pire.  Montaigne,  Liv.  iii..  Cap.  ix. 


NEW  YORK: 

€I)arlcs  Scribner. 

1853. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1849,  by 


BAKER  AND  SCRIBNER, 

In  the  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


Stereotyped  by 
0.  W.  BENEDICT. 
‘201  William  street. 


m .32,  * 

MU  IB 


DEDICATORY  LETTER 

To  My  Old  Friend 


My  Dear  S - , 

OOME  eight  years  have  now  passed,  (they  have 
been  to  me  like  a  wild  and  tangled  dream,)  since 
our  college  acquaintance  ended,  almost  as  soon  as  it 
was  begun. 

You  are  become  a  teacher,  a  husband,  and  a  father  ; 
while  I  am  still  the  same  strolling  vagabond,  as  on 


3^2860 


ii  Dedicatory  Letter. 

the  day  I  pocketed  the  precious  Baccalaureate,  and 
turned  my  back  upon  the  college. 

You,  in  the  centre  of  your  quick-growing  West, 
have  already  achieved  that  best  of  earthly  enjoyments 
— a  home  ;  and  are  fast  achieving,  (what  your  mo¬ 
desty  will  tempt  you  to  deny,)  an  honored  and  re¬ 
spected  name. 

I,  meantime,  your  old  companion  of  the  Vacation 
rambles  along  the  sunny  shores  of  the  Sound  of  Long 
Island, — one  time  on  land,  and  one  time  on  water ; — 
now  struggling  against  sickness,  and  now  reckless 
with  new-gained  strength  ; — one  time  following  game 
in  the  woods,  and  another,  pleadings  in  the  courts  ; — 
now  dreaming  on  the  decks  of  the  sleepy  barges  of 
Holland,  and  again,  rioting  under  the  waving  shadows 
of  the  shrubs  that  fringe  the  Roman  ruins, — am  still 
drifting,  with  memories  for  friends,  and  the  world — a 
home  ! 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  the  Forest  of  Fontainbleau, 
- — a  noble  old  wood,  full  of  mossy  boles  and  silence — 
that  the  thought  first  came  to  me,  of  giving  you  some 
scattered  glimpses  of  what  had  been  passing  under 


Dedicatory  Letter.  iii 

my  eye,  during  the  eight  most  eventful  months  of 
Paris  Revolution. 

I  know  not  how  it  is  with  you,  but  in  a  forest  my 
mind  seemg  to  grow  out  of  its  stature — altogether  be¬ 
yond  its  city  littleness,  and  pushes  out  lustily,  right 
and  left,  and  upward,  as  if  it  belonged  to  a  strong 
man  !  And  it  was  in  just  one  of  these  accessions  of 
strength,  (which  after  all,  I  count  only  as  seductive 
illusions,)  that  I  found  myself- with  pen  and  paper, 
bewriting  page  after  page — sketching  men  and  scenes 
that  I  thought  you  would  be  glad  to  see,  through  eyes 
that  were  familiar  to  you  : — stretching  on  and  on, — 
sheet  after  sheet — not  weary,  because  of  the  forest 
feeling, — not  disheartened,  because  writing  to  you, — 
until  at  length,  the  pages  have  become  a  book,  and 
the  letter — a  prologue  ! 

You  know  that  in  the  early  Spring  of  1848,  I  was 
immured  in  the  dim  office  of  a  city  attorney  ;  and 
that  the  alarum  of  the  new-born  Republicanism  of 
France,  first  came  upon  my  ear,  under  the  cobweb 
tapestry  of  a  lawyer’s  salon. 


3*72860 


IV 


Dedicatory  Letter. 


To  me,  with  whom  the  memories  of  courts  and  mon¬ 
archic  splendors  were  still  fresh  and  green,  such  sudden 
news  was  startling.  I  tortured  my  brain  with  think¬ 
ing — how  the  prince  of  cities  was  now  looking  ; — and 
how  the  shops  ; — and  how  the  gaiety  ?  I  conjured 
up  images  of  the  New  Order,  and  the  images  dogged 
me  in  the  street,  and  at  my  desk,  and  made  my  sleep 
— a  nightmare  !  They  blurred  the  type  of  Black- 
stone,  and  made  the  mazes  of  Chitty  ten  fold  greater. 
The  New  Statutes  were  dull,  and  a  dead  letter  ;  and 
the  New  Practice  worse  than  new.  For  a  while  I 
struggled  manfully  with  my  work,  but  it  was  a  heavy 
schoolboy  task — it  was  like  the  knottiest  of  the  Tus- 
culan  Questions,  with  vacation  in  prospect. 

The  office  was  empty  one  day  :  I  had  been  breaking 
ground  in  Puffendorf ; — one  page — two  pages — three 
pages — dull,  very  dull,  but  illumined  here  and  there 
with  a  magic  illustration  of  King  Louis,  or  stately 
poet  Lamartine ;  when  on  a  sudden,  as  one  of  these 
illustrations  came  in,  with  the  old  Palais  de  Justice  , 
in  the  back  ground,  I  slammed  together  the  heavy 
book-lids,  saying  to  myself ; — Is  not  the  time  of  Puf¬ 
fendorf,  and  Grotius,  and  ever  amiable,  aristocratio 


Dedicatory  Letter. 


v 


Blackstone  gone  by  ?  And  are  there  not  new  King¬ 
dom-makers,  and  new  law-makers,  and  new  code¬ 
makers  astir,  mustering  with  all  their  souls  and 
voices,  such  measures  of  Government  as  will,  by  and 
by,  make  beacons  and  maxims  ?  And  are  not  these 
New-men,  making,  and  doing,  and  being,  what  the 
Old -men  only  wrote  of?  > 

Are  not  those  people  of  France,  and  wide-skirted 
German-land,  lit  up  by  hatred  of  aggression,  and  love 
of  something  better,  putting  old  law,  and  maxim,  and 
jurisprudence  into  the  crucible  of  human  right,  and 
heating  them  over  the  fire  of  human  feeling,  and  pour- 
ingthemintothemouldofhumanjudgment,  to  make  up 
a  new  casting  of  Constitutional  Order  ? 

And  as  for  the  New  Practice,  is  there  not  a  new 
practice  evolving  over  seas; — not  very  precise  perhaps, 
about  costs,  and  demurrers,  and  bills  of  exception, — 
but  a  practice  of  new-gained  rights,  new-organized 
courts,  new-made  authorities,  new-wakened  mind, — 
in  short,  the  whole  practice,  not  only  of  Courts,  but  of 
Human  Nature,  and  Passion,  and  Power  ? 

Are  they  not  acting  out  over  there  in  France,  in  the 
street,  in  the  court,  and  in  the  Assembly,  palpably  and 


VI 


Dedicatory  Letter. 


visibly,  with  their  magnificent  Labor  Organizations, 
and  Omnibus-built  barricades,  and  oratorio  strong- 
words,  and  bayonet  bloody-thrusts,  a  set  of  ideas 
about  Constitutional  Liberty,  and  Right  to  Property, 
and  offences  criminal,  and  offences  civil,  wider,  and 
newer,  and  richer  than  all  preached  about,  in  all  the 
pages  of  all  these  fusty  Latinists  ? 

- And  I  threw  Puffendorf,  big  as  he  was,  into 

the  corner,  and  said, - 1  will  go  and  see  ! 

That  very  evening,  under  a  soft  summer-like,  smoky 
sky  of  early  Spring,  I  set  off  to  bid  my  few  friends 
ad  ieu.  It  was  an  hour  or  two  past  midnight,  when  I 
reached  the  little  town ;  (you  know  it- — how  pretty, 
and  how  fresh  it  is  !)  Not  a  soul  was  stirring  ;  the 
streets  were  silent ;  the  houses  were  dark  ;  only  a  little 
mingled  light  of  moon  and  stars  was  playing  on  the 
roofs,  or  dappling  the  ground  that  lay  under  the  long 
lines  of  elms. 

My  dog  met  me,  with — first,  a  growl,  and  then  a 
bound  of  welcome.  I  crawled  in  at  a  window — groped 
my  way  to  a  chamber,  and  threw  myself  half-dressed 
upon  the  bed,  to  dream  of  gay  Paris  streets. 


Dedicatory  Letter. 


vii 


The  birds  wakened  me.  Then  came  the  rich,  quick 
welcome, — the  glad  surprise — the  throng  of  kind 
inquiries - 

The  next  day  I  was  tramping  over  the  old  farm¬ 
land  ;  sitting  upon  the  rocks  under  the  familiar  trees  ; 
drinking  from  the  spring,  once  so  grateful  in  the  heats 
of  summer  labor. 

The  morning  after,  I  shook  your  hand,  upon  your 
doorstep  in  Waverley  Place  :  by  noon,  I  was  on  ship¬ 
board  ;  and  at  sunset,  at  anchor,  off  the  Hook. 

By  eight,  next  day,  I  was  listening  in  dreamy  reve¬ 
rie,  to  the  tug  and  chorus  of  the  sailors  at  the  wind¬ 
lass  : — an  hour,  and  the  royals  were  sheeted  home  : — 
another,  and  the  Highlands  of  Neversink  had  sunk, 
and  I  was  fairly  bound  for  France  ! 

You  know  now  the  history  of  my  sudden  leave. 

* 

From  the  quick  hand,  with  which  all  has  been  set 
down,  you  will  not  expect  the  interest  of  continued  nar¬ 
rative,  or  the  soberness  of  Historic  data.  It  is  but  a 
careless  play  of  the  lights  and  shadows  of  our  stormy 
summer. 

I  have  given  sketches  of  such  persons  belonging  to 


viii  Dedicatory  Letter. 

the  epoch,  as  I  have  thought  least  familiar  to  you  • 
and  I  have  grouped  the  others  by  tens  and  twenties, 
as  I  could  best  fill  up  my  canvas. 

Through  all,  I  have  tried  zealously  to  be  truthful  ; 
you  at  least,  will  appreciate  the  endeavor. 

As  for  opinions  upon  successive  action,  or  upon 
results,  I  make  no  apology  for  them  ;  I  ask  no  leni¬ 
ency  for  them.  An  opinion  upon  Political  or  Moral 
Revolution,  that  wants  either,  is  not  worth  writing 
down.  There  never  was  a  single  political  opinion 
that  united  men,  and  there  probably  never  will  be. 

In  such  opinions  as  I  have  hazarded,  I  have  not  at 
all  considered  the  chances  of  being  praised  by  one  set 
of  politicians,  or  of  being  condemned  by  another. 
They  have  been  expressed  because  they  were  enter¬ 
tained  :  an  old-fashioned  habit  belongs  to  me  of  wri- 

* 

ting  what  I  think, — a  habit,  which  with  Heaven’s 
help,  I  mean  always  to  maintain. 

But  you  are  growing  weary. - Take  then  the  book 

with  all  its  raw  reds  and  yellows  !  I  hope  it  may 
bring  you  in  some  measure  to  my  side,  and  make  us 
companions  for  ever  so  little  time. 

For  what  is  bad  in  it,  you  will  pardon  me — I  know 


Dedicatory  Letter.  ix 

you  will :  and  for  what  is  good  in  it,  you  will  thank 

me _ L  know  you  will  !  And  in  this  hope — the  best  I 

put  upon  the  book 

I  bid  you, 

Adieu. 

Ik.  Marveu 

FIFTH  AVENUE,  N.  Y 

nov.  1849.  * 


'  ■ 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTORY. 


I. 

The  Doorkeeper  who  was  King, 

Page 

.  .  .  •  1 

II. 

Men  of  Bourgeoisie, 

•  4 

III. 

Bourgeois  King,  is  King  Royal, 

.  8 

IV. 

The  Clouds  Thicken, 

.  11 

V. 

Mene,  Mene,  Tekel, 

.  15 

BLOUSE  IN  THE  STREETS. 


I. 

Room  of  Pagnerre, 

. 21 

II. 

Others  who  Wait, 

. 26 

III. 

The  Twenty-Second, 

. 28 

IV. 

Down  with  Guizot, 

. 32 

V. 

A  Check-mate, 

;  34 

VI, 

The  Dead-cart, 

. 36 

VII. 

Aux-Armes, 

37 

VIII. 

A  Royal  Breakfast, 

. 40 

IX. 

Chateau  d’Eau, 

. 45 

X. 

Mob  Material, 

. 50 

XI. 

Tuilleries, 

’  .  .  .  54 

vi 


Contents. 


Pash 

XII.  Who  is  Ruler  ? . 56 

XIII.  Chamber  of  Deputies,  ....  57 

XIV.  An  Omen,  .....  59 

XV.  Another  Comer,  .  .  .  .  .60 

XVI.  The  Talk  Begins,  .  ...  .  .62 

XVII.  A  New  Phase,  .  .  .  .  .64 

XVIII.  A  New  Man,  ...  .65 

XIX.  A  New  President,  .  .  .  .  .69 

XX.  The  Power  is  Made  and  Moves,  .  .  72 

BLOUSE  AND  PROVISIONAL. 

I.  The  Hotel  de  Ville,  ....  77 

II.  The  Palace  Garrison,  .  .  .  .78 

III.  A  New  Power  Comes,  ...  .82 

TV.  Night,  .  .  .  .  .  .85 

V.  The  Streets,  .....  87 

VI.  A  Wreck  of  the  Old  Time,  .  .  .  .  '90 

VII.  Escape  of  Royalty,  ....  92 

VIII.  The  Early  Decrees,  .  .  .  .  .94 

IX.  Country  Feeling,  .....  99 

X.  City  Feeling,  .  .  ....  102 

XI.  What  Reformists  Think,  .  '.  .  .  105 

XII.  Position  of  Republicans,  .  .  .  .108 

XII.  Revolutionary  Phases,  .  .  .  .111 

XIV.  Western  Sympathy,  .  .  .  .  .116 

XV.  The  Revolution  in  Books,  .  .  .  120 

XVI.  An  Amazon  of  Revolution,  .  .  •  123 

XVII.  Newspapers,  *  .  126 


Contents. 


vii 

Fage 

XVIII  Palace  of  the  Luxembourg,  .  .  .  13 

XIX.  The  Clubs  of  April,  ....  139 

XX.  Election  Week,  .....  143 

XXI.  City  and  Salon,  .....  147 


BLOUSE  AND  ASSEMBLY. 


1.  Fourth  of  May,  .  .  .  .  .155 

II.  The  Executive  Power,  .  .  .  .  162 

III.  Foreign  Events,  .  .  .  .  .166 

IV.  May  Fifteenth,  .  .  .  .  .  170 

V.  Blouse  Overturns  Bourgeois,  .  .  •  .  172 

VI.  Bourgeois  Overturns  Blouse,  .  .  .  180 

VII.  The  Victims,  .....  185 

VIII.  The  Issue  of  Rebellion,  .  .  .  191 

IX.  Assembly  and  Constitution,  ....  195 

X.  A  Seam  in  the  Executive,  .  .  198 

XI.  A  Fete,  .....  202 

XII.  A  Stranger’s  Thought,  ....  207 

XIII.  A  Foreign  Spark,  .  .  .  .  211 

XiV.  Public  Workmen,  .....  213 

XV.  The  Private  Workmen,  .  .  .  217 


BLOUSE  AND  BOURGEOIS. 


I.  Where  do  we  Stand,  ....  221 

II.  New  Election  and  New  Men,  .  .  .  224 

III.  A  Handsome  German,  .  .  .  .  227 

IV.  An  Old  Stager,  .....  229 


C  O  NT  E  N  T  S  . 


viii 


V. 

Almost  Emeute,  .... 

Page 

.  235 

vi. 

Salon  and  Salon  People,  .  . 

239 

VII. 

Theatres,  .  .  .  • 

.  245 

VIII. 

The  Champs  Elysees,  .  .  . 

248 

IX. 

Socialism  and  Socialists, 

.  252 

X. 

Last  Look  at  LamaTtine, 

269 

XI. 

Glance  at  the  Assembly,  .  . 

.  253 

XII. 

Black  Clouds  Gathering, 

272 

XIII. 

The  Streets  Again,  .... 

.  277 

XIV. 

The  Bourgeois  Tremble, 

282 

XV. 

Blouse  Reigns,  .  . 

.  286 

Introductory. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


I. 


The  Doorkeeper  who  was  King. 
LITTLE  way  out  of  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  at  Paris, 


-LjL  stands  the  new  Market  of  St.  Honore.  A  better  market 
is  not  to  he  found  anywhere,  either  for  fish,  plums,  or  poultry. 

A  very  different  commerce  belonged  to  the  spot  in  1790. 

At  that  date,  in  place  of  market  stalls,  and  cabbage  piles 
and  fountain,  and  new-planted  poplar  of  Liberty,  there  stood 
a  gray-stone  mass  of  ancient  building,  known  by  name  of 
Jacobin  Convent;  and  in  the  Jacobin  Convent,  sat  the  Jacobin 


Club. 


Among  the  almost  unnoticeable  .ones,  who  in  that  time  loi¬ 
tered  about  this  so-called  Jacobin  Convent,  sometimes  seated 
on  the  benches  of  the  Club,  listening  to  Robespierre,  or  Prus¬ 
sian  “  Anacharsis,”  and  sometimes  standing  sentry  at  the 
door,  which  looked  over  toward  the  Palace  Garden,  might 
be  sepn,  on  occasions,  a  young  man,  not  over  five-and- 
twenty,  well-made,  ruddy-faced,  with  the  keen  eye  and  heavy 


1 


2 


The  Battle  Summer. 


eyebrow  of  a  trader,  wearing  as  broad  lapels  to  his  waistcoat 
as  Desmoulins,  and  as  clumsy  shoe-buckles  to  his  shoes  as 
Danton. 

And  yet  this  young  man,  unnoticed  then,  except  by  gri- 
settes,  because  reputed  rich,  and  by  Jacobins,  because  not  a 
far-off  cousin  of  the  King,  was  destined  to  a  career  more  bril¬ 
liant  than  that  of  most  brilliant  grisette — more  stormy  than 
that  of  stormiest  Jacobin. 

Eight  years  thereafter — terrible  eight  years — this  young 
'man  could  enter  no  longer  at  Jacobin  Club,  if  indeed,  there 
were  Jacobin  Club  to  enter. 

His  money,  would  wheedle  no  palace  laundry-maid;  for  he 
was  living  far  from  palace,  in  a  little  village  of  mountain- 
country.  In  place  of  white-lapelled  waistcoat,  he  wore  drab 
surtout ;  and  in  lieu  of  Very’s  dinners,  he  ate  such  goat-milk 
cheese  and  dried  chamois  flesh,  as  the  earnings  of  a  school¬ 
master  brought  him. 

As  yet,  his  significance  was  not  complete. 

Later,  he  was  in  the  smoky  cabin  of  a  Hambourg  Trader, 
✓  east  about  by  the  waves  and  winds,  despondent  and  doubt¬ 
ful,  and  quarrelling  with  Destiny  ;  but  Destiny  was  ripening — 
in  the  hands  of  Him  who  holds  waves  and  winds — better 
things  for  the  Jacobin  ;  and  yet,  worse  things. 

Later  still,  and  even  now,  before  the  young  man  has  won 
other  manhood,  than  such  as  gallant  battle-action  can  give,  he 
was  floating  on  an  inland  river — the  Mississippi — broader  and 
longer  than  the  seas,  in  the  land  from  which  he  had  come, 
unaccompanied,  unknown,  unthought-of,  with  no  canopy  but 


The  Doorkeeper  who  was  King.  3 

the  open  sky,  and  no  light  for  his  darkness,  but  gleaming 
boat-torch,  or  the  host  of  stars. 

Not  yet  had  his  fate  and  his  name  ripened. 

The  years,  swift-winged,  and  heavy  with  great  tidings,  bore 
on,  and  the  man,  now  mature,  strong,  become  father,  had 
laid  hands  on  that  wealth,  which  in  the  days  of  declining 
monarchy,  had  won  for  him  sneer  of  fellow  Jacobin,  and 
smile  of  courtesan.  He  was  living  in  that  pretty  palace,  now 
dismantled  and  scarred,  which  flanks  the  long  drive  to  Neu- 
illy ;  was  the  envy  of  a  host  of  poor  courtiers,  and  poor 
courtiers’  wives,  who  added  to  the  fading  blaze  of  the  court  of 
his  gentlemanly  cousin  Charles ; — and  was  enrolled  anew,  a 
new  Jacobin,  in  a  new  Club  of  Jacobins. 

Now,  fate  and  name  were  ripening  together. 

Somewhat  later — counting  by  months  now,  not  years — and 
he  rode  along  Paris  streets,  leaning  back,  with  one  hand 
resting  on  the  crupper  of  his  saddle,  to  talk  with  the  tall, 
white-cravatted,  benevolent,  banking  Lafitte  ;  and  the  crowd 
which  hemmed  his  way  on  either  side,  from  the  Palais  Royal, 
to  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  from  the  Hotel  de  Ville  to  the 
Palace  of  the  Tuilleries,  guardsmen,  and  gamin ,  and  women, 
and  soldiers,  but  most  of  all  the  Bourgeois  shop-men — all  hud¬ 
dled  together  pell-mell — shouted — Long  live  the  Citizen  King ! 

And  he  chaffered  for  vegetables  in  the  Market  of  St. 
Honore,  on  the  same  spot,  in  the  same  city  of  Paris,  where 
thirty  odd  years  gone  by,  he  had  stood  guard  at  the  door  of 
the  Jacobin  Club  ;  and  the  turbaned  turnip-women,  and  the 
red-faced  fish  girls,  cried — Long  live  the  Citizen  King  ! 


4 


The  Battle  Summer. 


The  Jacobin  Club  broke  down  the  feudal  Monarchy,  never 
more  to  be  set  up  ;  and  the  feudal  Monarchy  (what  more 
feudal  than  the  Empire  ?)  broke  down  the  Jacobin  Club. 

The  Jacobin  door-keeper  built  up  Bourgeois  Monarchy  ; 
and  the  Monarchy  of  the  Bourgeois  has  broken  down  the 
J  acobin  door-keeper,  forever  ! 


II. 


Men  of  Bourgeoisie. 


E  have  seen  Louis  Philippe  who  was  ruler,  and 


»  T  victim  of  the  Bourgeois  ;  who  now  were  the  Bourgeois, 
who  were  the  victims  and  destroyers  of  the  King  P 

Traders  make  up  the  bulk  of  Bourgeois  ;  but  all  traders  are 
not  Bourgeois  ;  and  all  Bourgeois  are  not  traders.  Caustic, 
and  property-hating  Louis  Blanc  calls  them,  the  men  who 
have  money  in  their  purse,  and  tools  in  their  hands.* 

Middle-class  renders  the  term  ;  but  the  rendering  is  only 
typical,  and  half  true.  In  America,  all  are  middle-class  ; 
in  England  middle-class  is  a  Name,  and  not  a  Force  ;  in  Italy 
and  in  Austria  it  is  yet  a  question,  sadly  mooted,  whether 
such  class,  having  sympathies,  purpose,  soul — exist. 

For  France,  let  us  look  at  types. 

- A  young  man,  not  over  earnest,  and  half  ambitious, 

who  comes  up  from  the  Provinces  to  Paris,  with  all  the  means 


Histoire  de  Dix  Ans.  Conclusion  Historique. 


Men  of  Bourgeoisie. 


5 


in  his  pocket,  that  can  he  spared  from  the  pockets  of  two 
poor,  peasant  parents ;  who  struggles  his  way  through  the 
heat,  and  dirt,  and  corruption  of  the  Hospitals,  so  that  in  five 
or  six  years  he  may  call  himself  Doctor  ;  who  takes  humble 
chambers,  and  begins  practice  by  killing,  first  the  cat  of  the 
Concierge,  and  then  the  Concierge  himself ;  who  makes  a 
paying  business  by  visits  to  tradesmen  ;  who  takes  his  coffee, 
and  reads  his  journal  every  day  at  the  Procope  ;  who  plays  at 
Dominoes  with  the  women  of  the  Cafe,  and  at  Boston  with 
tradesmen’s  wives  ;  who  boasts  a  kinship  with  a  silent  Pro¬ 
vincial  Deputy,  and  who  goes  to  hear  the  preaching  of 
Dominican  Lacordaire — he,  be  assured,  is  one  of  the  Bour¬ 
geoisie. 

- A  short,  chatty,  gray-haired  lady,  born  in  Paris,  and 

who  never  journeyed  ten  leagues  away  ;  who  rents  a  hotel 
beyond  the  Seine,  to  be  let  again  by  piece  to  medical  students, 
and  dried-up  old  Provincials ;  who  thinks  Paris  the  centre  of 
the  world,  and  herself  very  near  the  centre  of  Paris ;  who 
has  a  few  funds  at  the  bank,  and  a  great  many  in  shabby 
furniture  ;  who  quarrels  with  her  servants,  and  is  all  sunshine 
with  the  lodgers  who  pay  ;  who  says  mass  at  St.  Sulpice,  and 
carries  a  lap-dog  in  her  arms — she,  and  her  son,  and  her  hus¬ 
band,  and  her  husband’s  son,  are  of  the  Bourgeoisie. 

- A  corpulent,  middle-aged  man,  who  wears  the  red- 

trimmed  cap  of  the  National  Guard  ;  who  sometimes  stands 
sentry  at  the  gate  of  the  Tuilleries  with  a  cigar  in  his  teeth, 
and  other  days  lounges  at  his  shop  door  in  the  Rue  St.  Denis; 
who  has  one  son  at  the  school  of  St.  Cyr,  and  another  on  the 


6  The  Battle  Summer. 

railway  to  Orleans ;  who  has  married  one  daughter  to  a  wine- 
seller,  and  another  to  a  blubbering  old  wool-grower  of  Vier- 
zon — he,  too,  is  of  this  Bourgeoisie. 

The  priesthood,  black-draped,  belonging  in  the  mass  to  old 
fashioned,  orthodox  Royalty,  which  is  first  cousin  to  priest¬ 
craft,  has  also  its  representatives  in  the  crowd  of  Bourgeois. 

They  will  not  be  from  Paris,  but  from  the  Provinces. 
They  will  have  pined  for  favors  they  have  not  received,  and 
hoped  long  for  royal  stipends,  that  have  never  come.  They 
will  have  said  mass,  gloomily,  in  deserted  churches.  They 
will  have  been  inmates  of  country  Chateaus,  where  age  or 
ugliness  made  them  acceptable,  and  where  the  Sunday  offices 
have  excused  their  presence.  A  citizen  priesthood,  they 
regard  as  gold-fleece,  Jasonic  fable,  the  stories  of  the  old 
church-estates,  and  toil  with  small  means,  on  stubborn  ground. 
They  glide  quietly  through  Paris  streets,  eating  at  humble 
half-price  Cafes,  visiting  retired  tradesmen,  playing  whist  with 
old  men,  who  have  young  wives,  shut  up  within  high  garden 
walls,  and  talking  alternately  of  Pope,  and  politics. 

Another  Bourgeois,  is  a  man  you  will  see  rolling  along  the 
Boulevard,  in  luxurious  carriage  ;  his  face  is  round,  and  deep- 
colored  ;  his  eye  gray,  sluggish,  yet  piercing  ;  his  chin  is 
heavy,  and  his  lip  sensual.  He  wears  white  stiff-starched 
cravat,  and  massy  gold  chain  ;  he  has  shares  in  the  Northern 
Road,  and  in  the  Orleans  Road,  and  in  the  Road  of  Bordeaux. 
He  dines  as  luxuriously  as  he  rides.  You  may  see  him  from 
time  to  time,  at  the  balls,  head  and  shoulders  above  the  crowd, 
his  neck-cloth  tied  with  the  precision  of  a  lease,  and  he  turn- 


Men  of  Bourgeoisie. 


7 


ing  his  colossal  head,  to  the  coquettish  tap  of  some  deftly- 
handled  fan  ;  and  he  wearies  an  hour  with  chat  heavy  as  his 
chin — made  light  by  great  gold  weight — and  goes  home  to  a 
palace  in  the  Rue  Lafitte.  : — 

Rothschild,  is  one  of  the  Bourgeoisie. 

Such  are  the  men,  and  they  make  up  more  than  half  of 
Paris  world,  of  whom  Louis  Philippe  was  king,  by  what  they 
called  election,  and  of  whom  Casimir  Perier,  himself  a 
banker,  was  the  Minister. 

No  one  of  those  bonds,  which  ordinarily  unite  a  great  party, 
belongs  to  the  Bourgeoisie.  It  is  not  a  religious  bond  ;  for  the 
most  are  without  religion.  It  is  no  social  bond,  for  they  are 
of  all,  and  from  all.  It  is  not  even  habit,  for  they  are  of  all 
habits  ;  it  is  simply,  community  of  wish  ; — wish  for  peace, 
and  wish  for  plenty  ;  pacem  et  pecuniam. 

We  have  seen  what  the  Bourgeois  are  as  men  ;  as  party, 
it  is  not  religious,  nor  social,  nor  political,  and  only  cognizable 
as  wishful,  or  as  some  would  say  tartly,  greedy  party. 

It  is  easy  to  see  the  affinity  of  such  party  for  the  man  who 
was  Egalite  Junior — Louis  of  Orleans.  For  Louis  of  Orleans 
was  owner,  in  fee  simple,  of  the  long  row  of  Palace  Royal 
shops,  tenanted  most  of  them  by  veritable  Bourgeois  ;  he  was 
stock-jobber;  he  was  citoyen  simple;  he  had  been  Jacobin; 
he  had  worn  gray  clothes ;  he  had  money,  and  he  loved 
money.  He  was  beside,  a  sort  of  Cast-away  from  the  stock 
of  old  feudal  monarchs,  whose  equipage  and  etiquette  cast 
blightii  g  shadows  on  the  Bourgeois  pride 


8 


The  Battle  Summer. 


Guillotine,  and  Egalite  together  had  made  a  great  gap 
between  him  and  ancient  Kingships : — so  much  for  Scylla. 

Sans-culotte  Charybdis,  was  even  less  feared  :  For  he  was 
reckoned  by  far  too  shrewd  a  schemer,  to  fan  any  Revolu¬ 
tionary  sparks,  which  once  fairly  lighted  into  flame,  might 
consume  both  Bourgeois,  and  Bourgeois  bank. 


III. 


Bourgeois  King  is  King  Royal. 

HEN  the  king’s  son,  the  late  Duke  of  Orleans,  had 


Y  T  spent  the  best  years  of  his  youth-hood,  amid  the  plea¬ 
sures  and  debaucheries  of  the  Capital ;  when  he  had  become, 
as  man  will  become,  fatigued  with  dissipation,  and  lust  had 
grown,  as  lust  will  grow,  an  ennui ;  he  bethought  himself  of 
marrying. 

With  simple  citizen,  this  is  simple  matter  of  selection,  pre¬ 
sentation,  deliberation,  and  execution.  With  Prince  Royal  it 
is  far  otherwise. 

The  prince  consulted  the  minister  ;*  the  minister  suggested 
a  bourgeois  wife  for  the  bourgeois  prince. 

The  prince  bit  his  lip,  and  consulted  the  father,  and  the 
aunt  Adelaide.  A  little  of  the  old  feudal  leaven  lingered 
in  royal  bosoms  :  and  the  father  and  the  aunt,  with  map 


*  Histoire  de  Dix  Anc. 


Bourgeois  King  is  King  Royal.  9 

before  them,  laid  their  fingers  on  the  city  of  Vienna,  the  seat 
of  the  most  feudal  of  monarchies. 

- What  a  thing  is  life  ;  and  what  a  thing  is  pride  ! 

Corby  school  keeping,  nor  hull  of  Hamburgher  craft,  nor 
night  squatting  on  low-lying,  vast  Mississippi  shores,  could 
wholly  beat  out  of  Valiny  field  officer,  and  gallant  aicle-de-camp 
at  Jemappes,  the  yearning  of  old  king-blood !  Is  there  cure 
for  it  on  earth  ?  Poor  Louis  Philippe  ! — the  poorer,  because 
like  all  the  world  ! 

The  prince  hurried  to  the  Austrian  court ; — flattered  the 
Arch -Duchess  Sophia,  waltzed  with  her  royal  highness  of  Es- 
terhazy,  and  offered  himself  to  the  princess  Honoria.  The 
Arcli-Duchess  would  not  give  her  daughter  to  a  bourgeois 
prince  ;  and  the  prince,  cursing  heartily  the  old  feudal  pride, 
turned  his  back  upon  Schonbriin. 

The  Bourgeois  at  home  were  half  glad  of  the  defeat ;  and 
when  the  gallant  prince  returned,  with  the  humble  but  wor¬ 
thy  scion  of  a  German  house  in  his  train,  there  was  a  little 
malicious  glee  in  their  greeting. 

Was  the  king  cured  ?  No  :  one  rebuff  did  not  break 
down,  but  only  quickened  the  feudal  feeling.  Adelaide,  the 
royal  sister,  could  not  put  it  away  ;  and  Sicilian  Amelia,  the 
queen,  had  brought  it  with  her  from  the  air  of  Palermo. 

- We  are  slighted — say  they  ; — we  will  be  royal  enough 

to  slight. 

At  this,  Republicanism,  stifled  with  Lafayette’s  gray  hairs 
in  1S30,  grows  bold  and  gives  tongue; — not  a  continuous, 
well  sustained,  concordant  bark  ; — but  here,  a  shrill  yelp  from 

1* 


10 


The  Battle  Summer. 


the  wiry  old  terrier  Lamennais  ;  and  there,  an  angry  growl 
fi-otn  pugnacious  Blanqui ;  a  long,  hound-howl  from  Lagrange 
at  Lyons  and  a  melodious  baying  of  house-dog,  from  such  as 
Carrel  and  Marrast.  They  were  all  smothered  in  dungeons, 
or  silenced  with  sop.  And  the  king  went  on  marrying  his 
sons  to  princesses,  and  his  daughters  to  kings. 

Courtly  etiquette  came  back.  The  old  race  of  gentils- 
hommes  were  courted,  and  when  poor,  were  paid.  The  king 
did  not  ride  through  the  open  street,  leaning  back,  with  a 
hand  upon  the  crupper  of  his  saddle,  chatting  with  white-cra- 
vated  Banker.  But,  instead,  he  rode  in  coach  drawn  by 
eight  horses,  with  English-dressed  jockeys  for  outriders,  and 
a  corps  of  lancers  before,  and  of  dragoons  behind. 

Thiers,  who  was  after  Perier,  specially  the  minister  of  the 
Bourgeois,  was  cast  aside  for  cold,  phlegmatic,  sedate,  aristo¬ 
cratic,  proud  Guizot. 

The  two  hundred  thousand  voters — only  so  many  out  of  a 
nation  of  more  than  seven  millions  of  able-bodied  men,  over 
one  and  twenty — were  bought  with  Royal  favors.  Pritchard 
Indemnity,  and  whatever  the  king  wishes,  is  carried,  by  strong 
vote.  The  people,  bellicose,  and  quick-tempered,  exclaim 
against  the  wounded  honor  of  the  country.  The  Bourgeois 
are  not  silent,  but  are  organizing.  They  have  grown  jealous 
of  the  power  of  the  Bourgeois  King. 

Let  him  beware  ! 


The  Clouds  Thicken. 


11 


IV. 


The  C  l  o  u  d  s  T  h  i  c  k  e  n  . 

COMPANY  of  officers  in  undress  uniform,  are  in  one  of 


the  Cafes  upon  the  Boulevard,  discussing  angrily  an  item 
in  the  morning’s  Moniteur.  The  Journal  has  passed  from 
one  to  the  other ;  each  reads  with  the  same  expression  of 
scorn  ;  and  at  the  end  an  angry  scowl  runs  round  the  group  ; 
— The  Due  d’Aumale,  son  of  the  king,  scarce  turned  of 
twenty,  has  been  named  Governor-general  of  Algeria 

- An  accusation  of  simony  is  alleged  against  one  of  the 

higher  officers  of  the  crown ;  it  is  too  public  and  notorious 
not  to  he  met.  It  is  met,  and  so  poorly  met,  that  the  truth 
is  more  than  proved  ;  and  Teste  retires  in  disgrace. 

- Another  of  crown  advisers  is  charged  with  drunken¬ 
ness.  The  rigid  Queen  feels  scandalized  by  the  offence.  She 
entreats  the  Minister  of  Justice  to  expostulate  with  the 
offender.  M.  Martin  seems  disinclined  to  the  task ;  he  Legs 
to  assure  her  majesty  that  a  word  from  the  royal  lips  would 
have  more  weight,  than  the  longest  harangue  from  Minister  of 
Justice. 

The  Queen  assumes  the  task.  The  offender  humiliated 
seeks  his  revenge  upon  Martin,  Minister  of  Justice.  He 
spies  into  his  private  life  ;  alas,  with  terrible  success  !  Min¬ 
isters  of  Justice  are  mortal. 

The  offender  goes  to  the  Prefect  of  Police ;  he  lays  his 


12 


The  Battle  Summer. 


snare  artfully  ;  lie  tells  him  where  an  old  culprit  may  bo 
taken  ;  and  of  the  place  ;  and  of  the  time.* 

The  eyes  of  Prefect  glisten  with  expectation  ;  and  he  notes 
carefully  with  pencil  stub,  those  data,  which  are  to  confound, 
perhaps  destroy,  the  highest  Minister  of  Royalty. 

Poor  Martin  du  Nord  !  he  careful ;  there  is  a  line  written 
on  your  Prefect’s  pocket-book,  who  meets  you  with  such  un¬ 
suspecting  reverence,  which  to  erase,  to  blur  over,  you 
would,  if  wise,  give  your  right  arm  ! 

At  the  time  appointed,  the  myrmidons  of  police  are  out¬ 
lying  around  the  place.  Poor  Martin  du  Nord  ;  fate  has  her 
clutch  upon  you  !  That  sly  foot-fall  that  for  a  moment  star¬ 
tles  you,  is  no  cat-step — it  is  the  heavy  tread  of  Retribution  ! 

They  have  entered,  those  myrmidons,  and  they  have  found 
their  prize.  And  now  they  must  have  the  name  of  their  cul¬ 
prit,  even  before  he  goes  to  prison. 

Martin  du  Nord  ! — 

The  officers  look  one  another  in  the  face,  startled  ;  they 
end  with  thinking  it  a  sly  conceit  of  their  victim.  And  they 
seat  him  in  a  cabriolet,  to  drive  down  the  Champs  Elysees,  and 
along  the  Quays  to  the  Prefecture.  We  will  see, — said 
they,  with  pleasant,  ironic  smile, — what  Monsieur  le  Prefct 
will  say  to  your  Excellence.  And  they  thought  it  a  capital 
joke  to  say  to  the  bystanders,  that  they  had  in  charge  a  Min¬ 
ister  of  Justice. 

*  Tliis  fatal  episode  of  the  last  days  of  Louis  Philippe,  is  still  involved  in  deep 
mystery.  All  material  statements  in  the  narrative  I  give,  are  made  up  from  such 
oral  communications  as  seemed  to  me,  at  the  time,  most  reliable. 


The  Clouds  Thicken.  ,  13 

A  capital  joke  ! 

They  conduct  their  prisoner  to  the  Prefecture,  into  the 
presence  of  the  Prefect.  The  Prefect  sees  now,  too  late,  the 
snare  into  which  he  has  fallen.  That  court  of  Prefecture  is 
held  with  closed  doors. 

A  pair  of  greedy  eyes — the  accusing  eyes — looked  next 
morning  over  the  columns  of  the  Tribunal  of  Police.  But 
there  was  nothing  there  of  any  Minister  of  Justice.  Only  a 
dark  hint  or  two  was  dropped  in  the  column  of  Faits  Divers. 

One  week  after,  and  a  new  dignitary  held  the  Great  Seal, 
and  Martin  du  Nord  was  dead  !  Perhaps  it  was  in  mercy 
that  the  hand  of  Heaven  had  struck  down  the  high  officer  of 
Justice.  The  King  congratulated  himself,  that  he  was  spared 
the  scandal  of  a  public  inquiry  ;  and  was  glad  that  the  dust 
of  the  tomb  choked  the  voice  of  calumny. 

- A  group  is  gathered,  one  morning,  about  the  gateway 

of  a  palace,  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore.  The  people  who  com¬ 
pose  it  talk  eagerly,  and  as  the  doors  open  from  time  to  time, 
for  the  passage  of  police,  or  soldiers,  they  look  with  intense 
interest  across  the  grassy  court,  and  scan  with  quick  eye  the 
brilliant  windows  of  the  palace. 

Within  the  palace,  that  very  morning,  in  a  little  cabinet, 
whose  curtained  window  looks  upon  the  court,  the  Duchess  de 

Prasliu  has  been  foully  murdered;  and  the  Due  de  Praslin, 

* 

of  the  Royal  household,  was  the  assassin. 

And  the  angry  street-crowd,  mad  as  any  Lynch  mob,  will 
not  believe  that  the  princely  assassin  is  in  custody  ;  and  they 
will  not  believe  that  justice  will  be  done,  and  that  the  sharp- 


14  The  Battle  Summer. 

acting  guillotine  will  do  its  work  upon  the  neck  of  a  Duke,  as 
it  docs  upon  the  neck  of  a  poor  man. 

And  in  this  the  crowd  were  right ;  for  in  four  days  there¬ 
after  the  Duke  was  deadly  sick  in  his  cell.  The  crowd  said  it 
was  the  King’s  w  ork  ;  he  dared  not  pardon  ;  he  was  afraid  to 
condemn  ;  therefore,  he  had  sent  him  poison. 

However  this  might  be,  one  King  was  fast  helping  the 
wretched  de  Praslin  out  of  all  his  troubles  ; — it  was  the  King 
of  Terrors  ! 

- On  a  sombre  day  of  late  winter,  a  mournful  cortege 

with  all  the  appanage  of  Royalty, — dark  plumes  of  sable,  and 
heavy  folds  of  silver-embroidered  velvet, — was  passing  slowly 
from  the  borders  of  the.  city  towards  the  Royal  mausoleum  at 
Dreux. 

An  old  man,  white-haired,  broken  in  years,  and  broken  in 
spirit  was  chief  mourner.  The  same,  seven  years  before,  had 
witnessed  the  death  of  a  son  without  a  tear ;  now  he  was 
weeping.  The  King  was  weeping  for  his  sister,  the  Princess 
Adelaide. 

Why  should  not  kings  mourn  ?  above  all,  amid  such  per¬ 
plexities  as  now  thronged  upon  the  path  of  Louis  Philippe  ? 

The  multitude  respected  the  Royal  grief ;  for  it  had  long 
been  said  that  this  Princess  had  expostulated  with  the  King, 
upon  the  angry  tone  of  his  address  ot  1848*  ; — that  a  cool¬ 
ness  ensued ;  and  that  it  was  mainly  owing  to  this  unfortu- 

*  Au  milieu  de  l' agitation  qift  fomcntcnt  des  passions  ennemies  ou  aveugles ,  etc. 
—Speech  of  the  king  on  the  opening  of  session  1S48.  ( Comptc-rcndu  dcs 

Seances  :  Moniteur.) 


Men  e — M  e  n  e — T  e  k  e  l  . 


15 


nate  difference,  doubly  unfortunate  for  the  King,  that  the 
death  of  his  best  friend,  and  most  intimate  councillor,  had 
been  precipitated. 

He  left  her  reposing  under  Royal  escutcheons,  iu  the  tomb 
Royal,  at  Dreux. 

We  shall  find  him  again  at  Royal  Dreux  ;  but  not  now,  to 
linger  at  the  Royal  tomb.  Better  for  him,  perhaps  ;  certainly 
better  for  the  ends  of  his  long-followed  ambition,  had  he  gono 
there,  to  sleep  royally  beside  her — a  King. 

Death  is  not  the  grandest  misfortune  of  life. 


V. 


Men  e — M  e  n  e — T  ekel! 


E  have  seen  some  of  the  clouds  that  hung  ominous 


T  T  over  the  setting  dynasty  of  the  monarch.  A  new 
terror  was  rising,  had  risen,  to  face  the  King,  and  King’s  Min¬ 
isters  ;  it  was  the  Banquetting,  and  the  voices  at  the  Banquets ; 
— terrible  in  denunciation  as  the  hand  writing  at  the  'Banquet 
of  Belshazzar  of  Babylon  ! 

There  had  been  in  times  past,  other  such  meetings,  other 
such  voices,  voices  of  Republicans,  of  Socialists,  of  workmen, 
of  Communists,  of  Fourierites,  of  St.  Simonians,  but  stealth¬ 
ily  uttered,  not  noisy  in  the  great  noise  of  Bourgeois  trade- 
din,  which  had  been  long  court-music  ; — nor  coming  to  tho 


16 


Tiie  Battle  Summer. 


1  King’s  frightened  sense,’  like  the  hand  of  a  man,  writing  on 
palace  walls. 

Now,  Bourgeois  were  Banquetters  ; — shop  Bourgeois,  hank¬ 
ing  Bourgeois,  journalizing  Bourgeois,  deputy  Bourgeois,  and 
even  petticoated  Bourgeois. 

Those  who  had  hesitated  at  Republicanism,  and  shuddered 
at  Fourierism,  and  exorcised  Communism,  had  nothing  to  fear 
under  the  new  standard  of  Reforme.  Away,  then  flocked  the 
Bourgeois,  by  thousands,  and  by  tens  of  thousands — thinking 
only  to  chastise  their  too  Royal  King — after  the  Banquet  flag, 
unfurled  first,  by  that  pale,  cold,  keen  man,  Duvergier  de 
Hauranne. 

Precisely  similar  action  did  not  indeed  belong  to  all  Ban¬ 
quets,  which  wore  called  Reform  Banquets.  Orators  at  Lille, 
northward,  might  advance  propositions  for  which  those  of 
river-bank  Rouen  were  not  fully  prepared  ;  and  the  Banquet¬ 
ters  of  Lyons  might  go  as  far  beyond  those  of  Lille,  as  those 
of  wax-lit  Chateau  Rouge,  beyond  those  of  loom-rattling 
Lyons.  But  all  were  agreed  on  one  or  two  essential  points  : 
namely,  in  overthrowing  the  government  of  Guizot ;  in  ex¬ 
tending  the  elective  franchise,  and  in  curtailing  the  patronage 
and  prerogatives  of  the  crown. 

To  secure  these  ends,  even  zealous  Republicans  were  con¬ 
tent  to  waive  for  a  time  open  insistance  on  any  Robespierre 
dreams,  and  to  add  their  full-souled  ardor  to  the  chilly,  and 
temporizing  action  of  Royal  Reformers.  The  Communists 
lent  not  a  little  of  their  crazy  frenzy  to  the  growing  Banquets  ; ' 
and  hopeful  and  thoughtful  Fouricrites  smiled  a  blessing 


M  E  N  E  — M  E  N  E - T  E  K  E  L  . 


17 


upon  the  large  set  tables  of  Reform.  Enthusiasm  was  indeed 
needed,  and  purpose  exigent,  to  unite  such  men  as  Vivien, 
Rollin,  Barrot,  and  Flocon  at  a  common  hoard. 

But  straight  our  Royal  Ministry,  trembling,  and  yet  strong, 
with  seventeen  years  of  war-life  to  back  it,  forbids  Banquets. 
Away  on  wings  of  the  lightning  wires,  go  orders  to  Prefects  of 
Lyons,  of  Lille,  of  Arras,  to  take  such  measures  as  will  de¬ 
feat  the  new  and  threatening  assemblages. 

They  are  threatening  ;  will  Bourgeois  King  defeat  them  ? 

Government  organs,  with  most  clumsy  ridicule,  drive  hun¬ 
dreds  of  mere  reformers  into  ranks  of  earnest  Republicans  ;  so 
propagand  of  denial,  becomes  propagand  of  faith.  National 
and  Reform  newspapers  groaning  under  gibes,  and  persecu¬ 
tions,  spurred  on  with  vigor  the  stragglers  of  the  swelling 
camp,  and  unwittingly  added  the  glory  of  martyrdom,  to  their 
patriot  faith. 

- The  Chamber  of  1848,  the  last  Chamber  of  Depu¬ 
ties,  is  opened. 

The  King,  feeble,  hoarse,  pale,  makes  his  last  Royal  speech ; 
the  guards  defile  under  a  sour  winter  sky.  Guizot,  earnest, 
implacable,  wears  the  usual  air  of  cold  asperity ;  his  schoolmas¬ 
ter  face  is  furrowed  with  thought,  and  pinched  with  obstinacy, 
and  his  thin  lips  curl  with  easy  scorn,  at  the  loud  rebukes  of 
honest  Barrot,  or  the  ductile  phrases  of  scheming  Thiers. 

Mourning  is  on  the  Court  for  the  lost  Princess  Adelaide  ; 
and  mourning  is  on  the  people  for  the  lost  liberties. 

Banquetting,  even  now,  is  not  wholly  frightened  down. 
They  have  ceased  quarrelling — these  Banquetters — with  each 


IS 


The  Battle  Summer. 


other,  and  quarrel,  amicably,  against  common  enemy.  Com¬ 
mon  fright  has  scared  them  into  a  single  herd  ;  like  scattered 
troops  of  wild  bison,  which  great  danger  has  startled  together, 
they  troop  along  under  guide  of  their  shaggy  leaders,  making 
the  ground  tremble  with  swift  tread,  and  uttering  from  time 
to  time  a  roar,  which  rolls  over  the  land  like  mutterings  of 
thunder. 

The  ministry  hears  the  roar,  and  fear  is  growing  stern. 

Sternness  had  provoked  Banquetters  into  more  and  more  of 
noise  ;  and  this  noise  not  new  always  the  first  cry  of  Reform, 
but  a  low,  distinctly-uttered  cry,  for  Revolution.  And  criers 
of  this  last  cry  were  chiefcst  in  energy,  in  daring,  and  in  purpose. 

Little  Banquets  there  have  been  enough  ;  and  now  reformers 
shall  try  a  last,  great  Banquet.  It  is  arranged  under  the  di¬ 
rection  of  the  Opposition  in  the  Chamber,  for  Sunday  the  20th 
of  February.  And  the  Banquetters  have  at  command,  no¬ 
body  knows  how  many  Guard  National,  beside  streets-full  of 
men  in  blue  work-shirts,  called  blouses. 

But-; — this  great  Banquet  is  peremptorily  forbidden  by  the 
government ;  and  the  government  has  at  command  sixty 
thousand  of  the  best-disciplined,  best-armed,  and  so  far  as  we 
know,  best-minded,  troops  of  the  world. 

Very  soon  the  twentieth  of  February  will  come  : — but  sud¬ 
denly,  Banquet  is  adjourned  by  Banquet  managers  until  the 
twenty-second. 

- -  Only  two  days  more  ;  and  then,  Guizot,  we  shall  see 

what  you  and  your  troops  are  worth  :  and  Banquetters,  we 
shall  see,  what  you  and  your  blouses  are  worth. 


Blouse  in  tl)c  Streets. 


BLOUSE  IN  THE  STREETS. 


I. 


Room  of  Pagnerre. 


SHORT  way  down  the  Rue  de  Seine  St.  Germain,  and 


XI  not  far  behind  the  Palace  of  the  Institute,  there  may 
be  seen,  upon  the  lower  floor  of  a  tall  gray  stone  building,  a 
little  book-shop,  with  the  name  Pagnerre,  written  over  the 
door.  In  the  windows  are  hung  gay  placards,  announcing 
that  this  man,  Pagnerre,  is  publisher,  and  vender,  of  a  His- 
-tory  of  Ten  Years,  and  of  a  History  of  Girondins,  and  of 
other  hooks  kindred. 

French  authors  are  happily,  not  unfrequently  the  compan¬ 
ions,  and  friends  of  their  publishers.  It  is  not  strange  then, 
that  you  might  have  seen  at  times,  in  the  back-shop,  seated 
about  the  table,  over  which  a  stout,  black-eyed  man,  with 
heavy  shock  of  hair — Pagnerre,  presides,  some  of  those  authors, 
whose  books  are  placarded  in  the  front  shop-window. 

One  is  small;  scarce  five  feet  in  height;  with  Southern 
olive-tinted  skin ;  forehead  high  and  broad ;  eye  dark  blue,  and 


22  The  Battle  Summer. 

twinkling  with  uneasy  action ;  his  hands  are  delicate  as  a 
woman’s,  and  yet  sinewy,  and  possessing  nervous  grasp  ;  his 
toilet  is  unstudied  and  yet  graceful ;  you  would  say  that  he 
was  a  thoughtful,  and  precocious  hoy,  and  never  give  him  the 
five  and  thirty  years  that  have  passed  over  his  head,  and 
never  imagine  him  to  he  Louis  Blanc,  the  author  of  the 
Organization  of  Labor. 

Another  who  is  there,  you  will  see  at  a  glance,  bears  the 
weight,  and  dignity  of  at  least  eight  and  fifty  years.  His 
hair,  slightly  silvered,  lies  carelessly,  around  a  brow  that  it 
would  be  hard  to  conceal ;  his  features  are  regular  ;  his  eye 
still  keen  and  piercing  as  that  of  youth  ;  his  whole  manner  is 
elevated  and  full  of  dignity.  He  wears  simple  black  cravat, 
and  black  frock-coat,  buttoned  over  the  chest ;  one  hand  is 
thrust  into  his  bosom,  and  with  the  other,  he  gesticulates,  as 
he  talks,  (in  tones  clear  as  a  silver  bell,)  and  his  gesticula¬ 
tions  never  lose  then-  gracefulness,  though  ever  so  impassioned. 

Y ou  would  know  him  for  a  Poet ;  you  would  know  him  for 
a  lover  of  liberty.  It  is  Lamartine,  the  Historian  of  the 
Gironde. 

Both  these  are  Republican  Historians.  It  is  not  strange, 
that  their  talk  under  King-rule  should  be  low  and  earnest — 
because  Republican. 

Nor  are  these  alone.  Two  others  of  the  little  Club,  which 
sometimes  meets  around  the  back-shop  table  of  Pagnerre,  are 
worthy  of  description. 

The  first,  you  would  scarce  think  belonged  to  such  thought¬ 
ful  conclave,  as  gathers  in  the  Book-seller’s  room.  True,  his 


Room  of  Pagnerre. 


23 


forehead  is  noble,  massive ;  but  the  eye  with  all  its  light  and 
animation  has  something  of  a  careless,  heedless,  pleasure- 
loving  cast ;  his  lip  too,  is  full,  and  indicates  more  the  volup¬ 
tuary,  than  the  philosopher.  His  form  is  gross,  never  worn 
with  night  watchings  ;  his  hand  fat,  and  adorned  with  heavy 
signet  ring  ;  his  hair  curls  just  enough  to  set  off  to  advantage 
a  full,  round  face — and  just  so  little,  that  you  cannot  object 
to  it,  a  studied  coiffure.  His  dress  is  easily  and  well  disposed. 

He  sits  with  head  thrown  back,  and  chest  open — his  hand 
tossed  carelessly  over  the  back  of  his  chair — the  figure  of  a 
bon  vivant.  And  yet  you  would  be  astonished  at  the  rich¬ 
ness,  and  copiousness  of  his  words,  and  the  startling  earnest¬ 
ness  of  his  declamation. 

It  is  Ledru  Rollin,  Advocate,  Deputy,  at  whom  you  are 
looking,  and  to  whom  you  are  listening  ! 

The  other,  beside  Louis  Blanc,  where  he  sits,  seems  a  giant. 
His  long  hair,  fairly  and  honorably  gray,  flows  down,  almost 
touching  his  shoulders.  His  features  are  large,  and  firm¬ 
looking  ;  his  forehead  is  compact,  and  square  ;  his  eye  is 
large,  cheerful,  and  full  of  deep  intelligence. 

He  is  a  man  whose  labors  have  been  immense  ;  and  yet, 
save  in  the  iron-gray  locks,  two  deep  furrows  across  the  fore¬ 
head,  and  a  slight,  scarce  noticeable  stooping  of  the  shoulders, 
you  can  no  where  see  the  weight  of  it.  You  would  say  that 
his  work  had  been  comparatively,  easy  work — such,  perhaps, 
as  open  field  labor — and  that  he  had  borne  it,  like  the  strong- 
backed  countryman  that  he  seems. 

You  would  be  sadly  in  error. 


24 


The  Battle  Summer. 


The  man  before  you,  with  the  broad,  brawny  shoulders,  on 
which  his  long  frock  coat,  hangs  ill-fitting,  and  awry — wit'h 
the  buoyancy  of  youth  still  gleaming  in  his  large  gray  eye, 
-has  accomplished  more  labor,  both  of  body  and  mind,  than  all 
of  his  companions  together.  The  half  of  the  fatigue  which 
those  giant  limbs  have  endured,  or  the  half  of  the  laborious, 
continued,  harrassing  thought  that  has  been  elaborated  in 
that  man’s  brain,  would  have  crushed  the  little  nervous  Blanc, 
or  the  strong  Rollin,  to  the  earth. 

You  see  about  him  none  of  the  worried,  hang-dog,  Pro¬ 
fessor-like  air  ;  you  see  no  affected  astuteness  of  expression  ; 
you  see  none  of  the  withering  effects  of  numbers  and  of  cal¬ 
culation  ;  you  see  in  short  none  of  the  vanity  of  Science  ;  and 
yet  you  are  looking  at  a  man  possessed  of  mental  material 
enough,  properly  distributed,  to  puff  up  ten  ordinary  Profes¬ 
sors  with  conceit ; — you  are  looking  at  Arago,  the  Astron¬ 
omer. 

Others  there  are,  but  after  these,  less  noticeable — all 
Republicans.  With  them,  it  is  little  matter  that  Thiers,  or 
Barrot  replace  Guizot.  These  men  are  all — say  they — of 
kindred  brood. 

The  Four,  at  the  table  of  Pagnerre,  are  of  the  avant-garde , 
not  only  of  the  movement  beginning,  but  of  the  Age,  in  France. 
They  doubt  if  the  time  has  ripened.  They  tremble  at  the 
approaching  issue.  They  differ  even  slightly,  (and  the  differ¬ 
ence  will  grow  greater  day  by  day,)  among  themselves. 

Why  should  not  such  men  envisage  differently,  such  thing 
as  Republic  ? 


Room  of  Pagnerre. 


25 


With  Arago,  the  new  faith,  is  the  final  conviction  of  a 
close,  but  abstract  thinker. 

With  Louis  Blanc,  a  Republic  is  the  first  step  towards  the 
realization  of  an  ideal,  but  bright  philosophy.  It  is  the  focus, 
which  shall  radiate  world-wide  warmth — which  by  power 
within,  shall  converge  into  harmonious  concentralization,  all 
the  scattered  lines  of  human  authority,  and  of  civil  order. 

With  Ledru  Rollin,  the  Advocate,  it  is  a  cause  to  be  tried, 
a  claim  to  be  allowed,  a  culprit  to  be  acquitted.  More  than 
this  ; — it  is  the  opening  of  a  new,  and  wide,  and  free,  and 
equal,  and  proud  pathway  to  human  action,  to  civil  achieve¬ 
ment,  and  to  what  we  call,  political  glory. 

With  Lamartine  it  is  a  dream ;  and  to  such  dreamer,  a 
dream  is  as  real,  as  things  real,  to  a  realist.  Fancy  a  Painter 
getting  some  glimpse  of  a  firmament  of  Raphael’s  frescos  ;  or 
a  Musician  putting  his  car  to  some  chink,  through  which 
floats  an  Hallelujah  of  Angels,  and  you  have  Lamartine’s 
thought  of  a  Republic  of  Lamartine.  With  him  it  is  a  glo¬ 
rious  halo — the  Beautiful,  and  Good,  and  True,  which  the 
eye  of  Poet,  and  of  Prophet  sees,  reflected  by  the  light  of 
Humanity,  upon  the  shaking  visions  of  the  Future. 

These  men  are  of  the  Banquet ;  but  their  earnest  talk,  and 
their  arrangement  of  the  coming  scenes,  is  in  the  little  room 
of  Pagnerre. 

They  are  waiting  for  the  Twenty-second. 


2 


26 


The  Battle  Summer. 


II. 

Others  Who  Wait. 


REFORMERS  simple,  have  too  theii’  quiet  evenings ; 

one  time  in  the  Rue  Poitiers,  and  again  upon  the 
Place  St.  Georges. 

Little,  earnest,  spectacled  Thiers  is  always  there ; — ner¬ 
vously  unquiet,  angry,  and  hopeful  in  his  talk,  scheming  ever. 
He  clutches  the  Debats  in  his  grip,  and  his  cheeks  puff  out 
with  ill-tempered  zeal.  It  needs  all  the  cool,  and  placid  dig¬ 
nity  of  Barrot,  to  calm  the  fidgetty  leader  of  the  Opposition. 

But  as  the  storm  gathers  thicker  and  thicker  over  the 
devoted  head  of  Guizot,  the  anxiety  of  Thiers  changes  into  a 
chuckle  of  triumph.  For  once  the  far-seeing  Statesman  is 
short-sighted.  He  counts  simply,  and  purely  on  his  reinsta¬ 
tion  ;  he  makes  light  of  Republican  Banquetters ;  he  sneers 
at  poetry-making  Lamartine  ;  he  pities  feeble  Louis  Blanc  ; 
he  compassionates  the  aged  Astronomer  ;  he  defies  ardent 
Rollinists. 

Yet  what  knows  he,  pray,  of  the  side-currents; — of  the 
little  room  of  Pagnerre  ; — of  the  cabals  at  Reforme  office  ? 
He  is  dining  in  the  Rue  Lafitte,  or  in  the  Chaussee  d’Antin  ; 
his  talk  is  with  Bourgeois  bankers,  and  with  members  of  the 
Opposition. 

Together,  they  have  arranged  the  offices  and  the  honors; 
they  are  waiting  for  the  Banquet  of  the  Twenty-Second. 


Others  who  Wait. 


27 


Nor  are  these  all  of  the  movers,  and  actors.  There  are 
night-meetings  by  dim  candle  light,  in  the  offices  of  Rcforme 
newspaper,  in  the  dark  Rue  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  at  which 
are  met  such  fiery  spirits  as  Flocon,  and  Albert,  and  noble¬ 
looking  Barbes,  and  long-moustached,  sour,  David  (d’Angers. ) 

These,  set  at  naught  the  calculations  of  the  Opposition  in 
the  Chamber,  and  reckon  on  the  concourse  of  the  people,  and 
the  dethronement  of  the  King.  And  these  men  know  the 
Faubourgs  ;  and  you  might  have  seen  them  at  street  corners, 
feeling  the  pulse  of  that  quick  people,  which  swarms  around 
the  dark  places  of  the  Capital. 

Their  reasoning  is  short  and  sharp  :  we  were  cheated  in 
July — now  we  will  not  be  cheated  :  we  have  been  weak — • 
now  we  will  be  strong ;  we  have  been  poor,  we  will  be  so  no 
longer.  Their  strength  lies  in  the  quick  people-currents, 
whose  drift  they  know.  That  strength  is  great,  and  it  is 
growing  greater. 

Take  care  Guizot ; — take  care  Thiers  ! 

These  men  are  waiting  with  strong  anxiety  for  the  Banquet 
of  the  Twenty-Second. 

Guizot  is  waiting ; — even  the  arch-offender,  not  without  his 
friends,  and  loving  friends.  For  he  is,  as  the  world  goes, 
honorable,  kind,  a  good  father,  a  considerate  master,  a  stead¬ 
fast  friend.  Truly  a  man  may  be  a  good  man,  and  yet  a  bad 
man,  together.  You  shall  find  no  villain  so  accursed,  but 
some  spring  if  touched  right  will  call  up  tenderness— maybe, 
tears  ;  and  no  man  scarce,  so  good,  but  circumstance,  or 


28 


T  he  Battle  Summer. 


‘  thievish  opportunity,’  may  sometimes  make  his  excellence 
stare  out,  like  villainy. 

Guizot  was  closeted  often  and  long  with  the  broken-down 
King,  new-nerved  by  the  press  of  circumstance  ;  and  often, 
with  Duckatel,  and  Hebert. 

They  all,  were  waiting  anxiously  for  the  Twenty-Second  of 
February. 

And  time  was  rolling  on,  sure  and  relentless,  over  heads  of 
Reformers,  and  Schemers,  and  Workmen,  and  Republicans, 
and  Soldiers,  and  Beggars,  and  King.  The  interval  was 
shortening,  and  the  day  was  coming — the  Birth-day  of  a 
Washington. 


III. 


The  Twenty-Second. 


ND  now  the  day  has  fairly  come  :  In  Western  places 


-TJL  over  the  water — at  home — Republicans  born,  are 
dragging  out  cannon  to  fire  a  salvo,  in  honor  of  the  man, 
through  whom,  under  God,  the  country  was  made  Republi¬ 
can,  and  what  is  infinitely  better,  and  more  worthy  of  cannon 
shots, — was  made  Free. 

What  buzz  is  going  through  that  great  crowd  gathered  be¬ 
fore,  and  around  the  Church  of  the  Madaleine  in  Paris  ?  An 
angry  buzz ;  a  buzz  of  disappointment. 

The  gamin  will  see  no  fight ;  the  hungry  have  lost  their 


The  Twenty-Second. 


29 


Banquet  dinner  ;  the  speechmakers  must  keep  down  their 
speeches ;  the  Workmen  will  lose  their  Revolution ;  for  the 
Deputies  of  the  Opposition  have  published  at  the  eleventh 
hour  their  determination  to  abstain  from  the  Banquet. 

They  have  learned,  what  they  might  have  suspected  earlier, 
that  the  authorities  are  determined  to  repress  such  assem¬ 
blage  by  force  of  arms ;  and  they  wish  to  spare  the  shedding 
of  blood.  They  say,  too,  (a  true  stroke  of  Thiers’  strategy,) — 
we,  in  virtue  of  our  position,  would  be  safe  from  injury  ;  we 
are  unwilling  to  expose  our  adherents. 

But  this  does  not  satisfy — far  from  it — the  waving,  noisy, 
buzzing,  blue-shirted  crowd.  Are  we  not  judges,  reasoned 
they,  of  the  value  of  our  own  lives,  and  can  we  not  count  the 
number  and  sharpness  of  bayonets  as  well  as  any  Deputies  in 
the  land  ?  And  the  crowd  recoiled  upon  itself,  aud  stung 
itself,  almost  to  madness.  The  Deputies  were  in  error.  To 
that  crowd  bread  was  always  bread ;  and  blood,  after  all, 
was  only  blood. 

Meantime  a  little  company,  Lamartine  among  them,  per¬ 
sist  in  Banquetting  ;  and  some  even  urge  their  way  up  the 
Champs  Elysees,  to  the  gates  of  General  Thiars. 

But  the  gates  are  closed :  there  is  no  Banquet ;  and  no  sign 
of  Banquet,  save  the  straggling  canvass  of  the  Pavilion  ;  and 
even  that  is  being  pulled  down  by  workmen,  who  carried  the 
only  Banquet, — a  little  dry  bread  and  cheese, — in  the  pockets 
of  their  blouses. 

The  party  turned  away  homeward  ;  did  Guizot  think  he 
had  triumphed  ? 


30 


The  Battle  Summer. 

Meantime,  under  a  sombre  sky,  and  notwithstanding  the 
cold  wind-gusts,  the  streets  are  thronged.  The  doors  are  fill¬ 
ed  with  eager  faces. 

It  is  strange  Carnival  time  at  Paris.  Masks,  dominoes, 
balls,  intrigue,  all  are  forgotten,  for  the  grand  intrigue  that  the 
people  are  playing  with  the  Crown. 

Mounting  high  over  noise  of  throng,  and  tramp  of  feet,  and 
clatter  of  cuirassier,  borne  on  the  winter  blast,  even  far  over 
to  palace  ears,  is  the  chant  of  the  never-dying  Marseillaise. 
And  between  the  chorus,  comes  from  fiercer  voices,  counting 
by  thousands,  the  sharp-uttered  bark — a  has  Guizot !  Down 
with  Guizot ! 

Far  from  classic  Pantheon,  defiling  through  sordid,  dim, 
low-lying  suburb  of  St.  Jacques, — chanting  eager  with  young 
throats,  the  songs  of  wakened  liberty — come  the  long,  broad 
cohorts  of  the  schools. 

- Child  of  Esculapius,  with  stains  of  Clamart  dissect¬ 
ing  tables  yet  hanging  to  tattered  wristband  ;  crimson  collar 
of  Val  de  Grace  ;  gold- wrought  olive  leaf  of  St.  Cyr  ;  dainty 
sword  of  Polytechnic  ;  manual  of  law-talking  Dupin,  tucked 
in  coat  pocket — all  are  blended,  and  assisting  at  a  common 
course. 

Now  they  mount  like  writhing,  scaly,  parti-colored  Iguan- 
don,  Pont  Neuf,  and  descend  again  in  the  Rue  de  la  Monnaie  ; 
and  far  on  westward,  join  the  blouse-throng  around  the 
columns  of  the  Madeleine.  Their  chants  join  in  chorus — an 
ominous  chorus  ; — body-labor,  and  soul-labor  joined  ;  work¬ 
men  and  scholars  singing  a  paean  to  Liberty.  And  it  rises 


The  Twenty-Second. 


31 


and  swglls,  and  floats  on  those  string  winter-gusts,  over  inter- 
lying  Place  de  la  Concorde,  even  to  the  courts  of  the  Palace 
of  the  Deputies. 

Duchatel,  trembling,  comes  out,  and  stands  under  the 
columns  of  Palace  Colonnade.  He  looks  over  that  broad,  in¬ 
terring  Place,  toward  the  moving,  parti-colored' mass,  which 
is  sweeping  down  through  Royal  street,  that  fronts  the  Cham¬ 
ber  ;  and  he  turns  with  confidence  toward  the  long  lines  of 
infantry,  and  squads  of  glittering  cuirassiers,  that  stretch  at 
foot  of  Palace  steps,  and  beyond  the  Bridge ; — even  as  a 
mariner  will  look  over  the  sea,  long  and  fixedly  into,  the  teeth 
of  a  rising  wind,  and  then,  run  his  eye  proudly  over  taut  cor¬ 
dage,  and  taper  spars. 

Taut  cordage  snaps  ;  and  taper  spars  crackle  asunder,  if 
God  but  breathe  in  whirlwind. 

But  Duchatel  went  back  with  an  air  of  confidence — They 
are  but  chanting — said  he  : — vox  et  fratcrm  nihil. 

The  Guard  Municipal  charges  upon  the  throng  which  flows 
in  upon  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  The  dragoons  too  charge  ; 
but  slowly,  and  with  swords  in  their  scabbards.  The  crowd 
cries  in  return,  Long  live  the  Dragoons  !  Down  with  the 
Municipals  ! 

As  night  approaches,  stormy  scuds  drift  over  the  plagued 
city.  The  population  is  fitful  and  stormy  as  the  sky.  Al¬ 
ready  there  are  victims,  over  whom  mourners  have  task-work  ; 
but  as  yet  they  are  few,  and  victims  of  their  own  temerity. 

Everywhere  it  is  a  has  Guizot  !  and  that  other  cry,  borne 
like  a  rirhing  wind, —  Vive  la  Ref  nr  me  ! 


32 


The  Battle  Summer. 


The  leaders  of  the  Opposition  are  chuckling  at  their 
triumph.  They  lay  their  bill  of  impeachment  upon  the  table 
of  the  President. 

But  Guizot,  glancing  out,  as  Duchatel  had  done  before 
him,  and  seeing  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  silent, — the  waters 
dancing  there  in  their  bronze  vases,  as  if  it  was  gala  day,  read 
the  bill  of  impeachment  with  a  cold,  bitter  smile. 

The  eddies  of  the  troubled  people  are  sucking  away  angrily 
around  corners,  and  tossing  in  open  places.  Here  and  there, 
they  throw  up  in  their  course,  light  barricades,  which  they 
leave  behind  them,  for  a  sign  ; — as  Pelletan*  says — Comme 
des  notes  indecises  qui  fiottent  d'abord  qd  et  Id  sur  un  orches- 
tre — like  the  broken  notes  of  an  orchestra,  as  it  begins  its 
play.  And  soon  these  will  be  attuned,  and  the  music  swell 
out  clear  and  high. 

A  sheet  of  gold  blazes  along  the  Western  horizon,  and 
night  is  come. 


Down  with  Guizot. 

GUIZOT’S  troops  have  bivouacked  in  open  square.  His 
hotel  has  been  hedged,  and  occupied  by  Companies 
Municipal,  and  Companies  of  Line.  The  Faubourgs  have 


*  Lea  Trois  Journfees,  par  E.  Pelletan. 


Down  with  Guizot. 


33 


been  the  night-long  in  a  fevered  ferment.  Talk  has  waged 
angrily  in  all  corner  wine  shops.  Ref orme  newspaper  men 
have  not  slept.  There  have  been  Bourgeois  strangers  in  the 
Faubourgs  this  night ;  and  there  have  been  resolves  made, 
and  clinched  with  wild  oaths,  which  Thiers,  and  Barrot  do  not 
know  of — which  they  would  be  glad  to  know. 

Barricades  are  set  up,  and  torn  down ;  the  rain  is  falling  in 
torrents ;  musketry  is  cracking  from  hour  to  hour,  in  single 
volleys. 

As  yet,  however,  with  all  Bourgeois,  all  bank-men,  all 
traders,  all  fathers  of  families,  all  in  short,  who  dread  uproar, 
and  who  tremble  at  the  sight  of  red  flag — all,  or  most  of  Na¬ 
tional  Guardsmen,  who  do  not  love  to  quit  their  bureau  of 
Commerce,  the  cry  is  still  simply, — Down  with  Guizot ! 

The  Rappel  is  beaten  in  every  quarter,  at  the  first  blush  of 
morning :  but  these  new-flocking  Guards  National  will  not 
defend  the  Ministry ;  they  will  not  suffer — depend  upon  it, 
Guizot ! — men,  women,  and  children,  who  cry  ‘  a  has  le  minis- 
teref  to  be  shot  down,  like  whistling  thrushes. 

Away  they  go,  marching  bands  of  Bourgeois,  in  dress  of 
Civic  Guard,  not  to  disperse  the  early  gathered  throngs  on  the 
Boulevard,  and  place  of  Bastille,  but  only  to  mingle  their  cry, 
with  cry  of  others,  making  it  come  hoarser,  and  heavier  to  the 
Palace — Down  with  Guizot ! 

And  this  stern  Guizot,  with  the  lines  now  a  trifle  longer  in 
his  forehead,  enters  the  Cabinet  of  the  King,  and  says  ; — 

— Sire,  the  Guard  fraternize  with  the  people ;  the  soldiers 
refuse  to  fire  upon  the  Guard :  I  must  resign. 

2* 


34 


The  Battle  Summer. 


And  away  goes  the  fallen  minister  to  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies. 

— The  King  has  sent — says  he — for  M.  le  Comte  Mole  to 
form  a  new  Cabinet.  And  a  shout  of — bravo ! — bursts  through 
the  whole  Chamber.  Will  that  bravo  quiet  the  waves  of 
sedition,  that  are  rocking  heavily  around  the  city  ? 

The  rumor  runs — the  Ministry  is  fallen. 

National  Guards  are  satisfied ;  shopmen  open  shops;  even 
Reformers  are  quiet ;  the  People  seem  disposed  to  accept  the 
omen,  and  chant  in  chorus  unbroken,  a  good-humored  Mar¬ 
seillaise. 

As  the  night  approaches,  window,  balcon,  door,  frieze,  roof 
are  dancing  with  glittering  lights.  The  gamin  enchanted 
chant — des  lampions !  and  chiffoniers  pick  their  two  days 
cleanings  without  ever  a  lantern. 

Guizot  is  down. 


V. 

A  Check  Mate. 

TWO  gentlemen  are  seated  at  table  in  a  salon,  not  far 
from  the  Boulevard  de  la  Madeleine,  playing  at  chess. 
It  is  a  quiet  game  ;  for  they  are  Bourgeois,  and  the  news  of 
the  fall  of  the  Ministry  has  reached  them.  On  a  sudden  they 
are  startled  by  a  heavy  discharge  of  musketry.-— What  is  that  ? 
— said  one. 


A  Check  Mate. 


35 


— A  salute  ! — said  the  other ;  and  moving  a  piece  he  gave 
the  check-mate. 

It  was  not  the  only  check-mate  that  belonged  to  that 
terrible  discharge.  By  that  discharge  the  King  of  the  French 
was  check-mated.  By  that  discharge  too,  Life  has  been 
check-mated  in  fifty  athletic  men. 

They  lie — the  fifty  corpses — weltering  in  their  blood,  in 
warm,  red  torch-lLht,  before  the  Hotel  of  the  wretched  Guizot : 
their  destroyers,  two  hundred  soldiers  stretch  across  the 
street — now  reloading  their  pieces. 

But  there  is  no  need.  The  officer  is  horror-struck  at  his 
own  work.  Those  soldier  men,  even,  must,  and  will  have 
their  numbers  taken  from  their  hats,  and  be  mixed  in  other 
numbered  regiments,  to  save  them  from  hot  people-vengeance. 

And  why  this  sudden  discharge — this  check-mate  salute  ? 

Varying  accounts  will  go  down  to  History,  as  Historians 
may  side  with  the  People  in  blouse,  or  the  People,  who  for 
the  time,  wore  disguise  of  Soldiery. 

Certain  it  is,  that  a  column  from  far  away,  by  black  bronze 
shaft  of  Bastille,  clad  most  of  them  in  working  blue-shirts — 
some  with  swords,  some  with  sticks,  some  with  blazing  torches, 
and  all  chanting  lively,  liberty-praising  choruses,  did  sweep 
down,  swift,  and  threatningly  between  rows  of  blazing  tapers, 
along  the  stately  Boulevard: — Certain  it  is,  that  many  kindled 
by  the  chant,  and  torch-light,  joined  voices  to  the  chorus,  and 
swelled  the  roaring  column.  So  they  passed,  rolling,  a  wavy, 
tortuous,  shining,  shouting  stream — not  stopping,  until  tho 


36 


The  Battle  Summer. 


breasts  of  tie  foremost,  were  upon  the  muskets  of  two  hundred 
soldiers  in  steady  line. 

They  asked  for  passage ;  the  officer  of  the  detachment  re¬ 
fused.  The  hindermost  push  up  :  the  soldiers  grow  alarmed. 
The  officer  draws  his  sword.  A  gun  is  discharged.  The 
horse  of  the  officer  sways  under  him :  he  gives  the  fatal  com¬ 
mand — 

- And  French  Royalty  falls,  in  the  lives  of  fifty,  that 

Royalty  had  sworn  to  defend.  Now,  Republicans  may  shout, 
and  Reformists  may  tremble. 

The  tide  has  leaped  the  barrier. 


VI. 

The  Dead  Cart. 

BY  torch-light,  the  rallying  crowd,  terrible  with  groans 
of  vengeance,  pile  a  dozen  of  the  unclaimed  corpses 
upon  street-cart. 

They  tear  off  the  linen  to  show  the  murderous  wounds. 
They  dispose  the  strange  freight  with  horrid  art.  The  torches 
flare  over  the  stripped  bodies,  and  wild-faced  criers  of 
vengeance,  with  hideous  effect. 

Women  look  down  from  chamber  windows,  and  fall,  faint¬ 
ing. 

That  hoarse  yell  of  tragedy  rises  awful,  between  the  princely 
houses  ;  princely  occupants  rush  in  their  night  clothes  to  the 


A  U  X  A  R  M  E  S  . 


37 


windows,  to  see  the  red  flame  flaring  on  the  dead  faces  lying 
up  to  the  shy. 

Still  the  street  is  smoking  with  illuminating  triumph,  and 
the  night  is  dark  overhead.  So,  through  a  red  alley  of  tri¬ 
umphal  torch-light,  with  the  harsh  “  Vengeance !”  death-song, 
the  victims  pass  on. 

Away  through  narrow  streets,  turning  and  winding,  never 
stopping,  the  cart  of  dead  men  passes.  A  gaunt  torch-bearer 
sits  at  the  head ;  a  gaunt  torch-hearer  sits  at  the  foot ;  and 
and  as  the  interest  weakens,  one  or  the  other  raises  the  stiff¬ 
ened  corpses,  and  lays  his  blooded  finger  in  the  bullet  wound, — 
then  lets  the  carcass  drop  heavily  into  its  place suiting  to 
the  action  a  yell  of — Vengeance  ! — and  both,  wave  their  long, 
red  torches. 

Sleep  on,  Louis  Philippe  !  sleep  while  you  can. 


A  u  x 


VII. 

Armes. 


BUT  the  king  cannot  sleep.  East  and  west,  and  north 
and  south,  the  tocsin  is  sounding ;  and  the  mournful 
cadence,  full  of  threatening,  comes  to  the  Royal  ears. 

Lights  of  illumination  go  out,  and  are  not  re-lit.  Even  the 
torch-hand  of  promenaders  has  changed  to  black  company, 
which  thunders  at  house-doors,  and  demands  arms.  Not  small 


38 


The  Battle  Summer. 


bands  only,  but  companies  of  hundreds,  and  thousands — so 
many,  that  strong,  select  municipals  cannot  tame  them. 

Republicans  are  busy  this  night — not  now  in  club-room,  or 
in  bureau  of  any  newspaper,  but  in  street,  and  faubourg,  every¬ 
where  that  combustible  lies,  to  be  set  on  fire.  Not  now,  only 
straight-forward  Republicans,  but  all  sorts  of  change-makers, 
Socialists,  Communists,  Prudhonites,  dreamy  Fourierites,  are 
gadding  from  chamber  to  chamber,  making  barricade  prose¬ 
lytes. 

Nor  is  it  hard  to  be  done.  Lights  are  gleaming  in  garret 
windows ;  cartridges  are  rolled ;  balls  are  run ;  guns  bur¬ 
nished  ;  while  over  all  the  darkened  city  the  tocsin  is  boom¬ 
ing,  and  comes  heavier,  and  heavier  to  the  ears  of  the  wake¬ 
ful  king. 

Midnight  has  sounded.  The  King  paces  his  cabinet,  dis¬ 
turbed,  and  thoughtful.  Mole  was  with  him  at  noon — now 
he  is  gone.  The  hour  of  his  rendezvous  haspassed.  Why 
does  he  not  come  ?  The  king  can  count  no  longer  on  Mole. 

Away  he  sends — it  is  hard  work — for  Thiers.  But  it  is 
near  four  in  the  morning  when  Thiers  enters  the  cabinet  of 
the  King.  Guizot  has  just  left  it  forever. 

The  old  Bourgeois  Minister  has  come  again  to  his  post ; — 
the  man  flattered,  pampered,  discarded,  hated,  and  derided, 
has  come  again  to  the  King  whom  he  has,  in  turn,  flattered, 
cajoled,  hated,  and  insulted. 

He  demands  the  name  of  Barrot  on  the  programme  of  the 
new  Ministry  The  King  says — well.  It  is  no  time  to  object. 


A  u  x  Armes. 


39 


He  confirms  Bngeaud  as  master  of  the  forces,  and  hurries  off 
the  announcement  to  Constitutionnel,  and  Debats. 

- It  will  quiet  the  trouble — said  Thiers,  and  he  wiped 

his  pen,  as  a  surgeon  would  wipe  his  blade  after  probing  a  deep 
abscess. 

And  the  King,  like  a  sick  patient  who  experiences  sudden 
relief,  dropped  asleep. 

The  sleep  will  not  be  long,  and  it  will  not  be  sound.  For 
the  tocsin  has  only  ceased,  because  the  day  is  breaking ;  and 
with  the  day,  the  banner  of  revolt  will  be  seen,  red,  on  every 
barricade. 

The  storm  of  the  night — God’s  voice  in  whirlwind — has 
swept  the  Boulevard  of  trees.  They  line  the  barricades, 
which  cross  it  at  every  corner. 

Rich  bankers  hurry  away  in  first  dawn,  with  gold.  Happy 
Bourgeois  !  happier  than  Bourgeois  King  ! 

Strange  sight  it  is,  to  see — blouse  workers  suddenly  turne  d 
into  armed  men,  with  black  cartridge  box,  stuffed  full.  Mo¬ 
thers  with  young  children  may  well  tremble. 

But  what  is  it  that  armed  men  are  pulling  down  from  street 
corners,  and  trampling  under  foot,  with  oaths,  that  reach  third 
lloor  window  ?  It  is  M.  Thiers’  proclamation,  that  the  King 
has  selected  M  Barrot  and  himself  to  form  a  new  Min¬ 
istry. 

The  shop-keepers  crowd  up,  honest  Bourgeois,  and  say 
loudly — let  it  stand.  This  is  what  we  wish.  This  is  Re¬ 
form. 

But  bh  use  blood  is  up.  Night  watching,  and  torch-light, 


40 


The  Battle  Summer. 


and  communist  talk  have  fired  them.  The  blouse  has  musket, 
and  the  blouse  lias  ball. 

Not  in  vain  has  the  cry  gone  forth — Aux  Armes  ! 

Reformists  waking,  and  finding  such  proclamation,  turn 
over,  and  drowse  again,  saying  sleepily — our  work  is  done. 

Republicans  have  not  slept,  and  their  eyes  not  dimmed  with 
night-watch,  twinkle  with  smile  of  strange  meaning,  at  sight 
of  such  strange  placard.  They  only  tighten  their  cartridge 
belts,  and  look  to  the  lock  of  their  muskets.  Quick ! — there 
is  need.  The  firing  has  begun, — in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, 
in  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  by  the  Porte  St.  Martin. 

In  distant  quarters  only,  and  breaking  fitfully  on  the  cool 
air  of  February  morning,  the  cry  still  reaches  sleeping  ears- 
Aux  Armes ! 


Yin. 


A  Royal  Breakfast. 


HE  King  is  wakened  by  crack  of  musketry. 


JL  Still  Thiers  is  scrambling  over  barricades,  holding 
upon  his  spectacles,  and  saying,  loud  as  the  din  will  let  him 
say — me  void — I  am  Minister. 

The  National  Guard  listen,  and  hesitate  ;  not  so  the  throng 
in  blouse.  The  Republicans  have  been  before  the  Minister  ; 
high  hopes  have  been  quickened  ;  they  who  have  promise  of 
roast,  with  dessert,  will  not  dine  on  stews. 


A  Royai,  Breakfast. 


41 


- At  worst — say  they — we  can  fall  hack  on  such  as 

Thiers.  En  avant ! — let  us  see  the  middle  of  the  Palace  of 
the  King. 

And  the  paving  stones  clank  on  the  rising  wall,  and  mus¬ 
kets  glisten  along  the  lifting  line. 

Barrot  too,  earnest,  honest  Barrot  makes  his  way  in  face  of 
danger  ;  the  shop-men  feel  re-inspired ;  the  Guard  sympa¬ 
thize.  But  there  are  the  blouses  pushing  on  ;  they  will  not 
stop  ;  they  will  not  listen  ;  and  enough  of  epauletted  Guard 
are  with  them,  to  give  them  confidence.  On  by  thousands 
they  push,  hemming  closer  and  closer  the  Palace  walls. 

The  clock  upon  the  tower  of  the  Horologe  strikes  ten. 

The  King  is  at  breakfast.  The  courtly,  long-faced  Marie 
Amelie  is  there  ;  the  lively,  fiery  little  scion  of  the  great  house 
of  Aragon — the  Princess  of  Montpensier  is  with  them  ;  and 
by  her  side,  with  face  that  stormy  events  have  made  thought¬ 
ful  and  care-worn  beyond  his  years,  sits  her  handsome,  boy¬ 
faced  husband. 

A  tap  is  heard  at  the  door  ;  a  valet  announces  the  Deputy 
Remusat  ;  he  wishes  to  speak  with  his  Highness  of  Mont¬ 
pensier.  The  King  rises,  and  the  Queen. 

It  is  announced  at  length,  that  the  proclamations  are  torn 
down  ;  that  neither  Thiers  nor  Barrot  can  lay  the  storm  ; — 
that  cries  arc  becoming  dangerously  threatening  ; — that  the 
people-masses  are  hemming  them  round. 

Now  indeed  the  King  trembles, — not  unmindful  of  a  certain 
Tenth  August !  Measures  of  defence  are  proposed.  The  old 


42  T  h  e  Cattle  Summer. 

Queen  is  stirred  ;  her  Sicilian  hot  blood  mounts  ;  she  would 
shoot  down  the  canaille. 

Not  so  fast,  good,  old  Queen  Amelie  ! 

Little  Spanish  Montpensier  joins  Sicilian  age,  fire  flashing 
from  her  Castilian  eyes.  For  a  moment,  the  King  wavers — 
then  commands  the  carriages.  But  the  carriages  must  pass 
by  Carousel ;  and  Carousel  is  full  of  troops ;  they  must  not 
see  such  Royal  retreat ; — nor  imagine  it. 

Then,  the  King  takes  courage  again,  and  puts  on  the  grand 
cordon  of  Legion  of  Honor,  and  coat,  rich  in  embroidery  of 
gold ;  so  he  passes  out,  and  passes  in  front  of  the  thousand 
troops  who  are  in  the  Great  Court.  It  is  his  last  ovation — 
his  last  grateful-sounding — Vive  le  Roi ! 

The  Queen  hears  it,  and  kindles  again ;  black-skinned 
princess  Montpensier  hears  it,  and  her  nostrils  snuff  the  battle. 

The  King  is  in  his  Cabinet,  still  wearing  broad  cordon  of 
Legion  of  Honor.  Little  Thiers,  puffing,  heated,  is  there 
again.  He  brings  sad  comfort,  to  the  now  half-comfortable 
Majesty.  The  prestige  of  Thiers  is  gone :  Barrot  must  be 
the  man. 

— Eh  Men ,  soil — well, — said  the  King. 

But  even  at  the  moment,  as  we  have  said,  honest,  earnest 
Barrot,  cannot  make  his  voice  heard  over  the  welkin  of  the 
blouse-cries.  Red  banners  are  floating  with  impudent  face. 

Down  again,  from  classic  Pantheon  new  student  throngs 
push  on.  This  time,  swords  and  bayonets  glitter  ;  and  hands 
that  yesterday  plied  the  scalpel,  are  chinking  gun-locks.  The 
whole  of  St.  Jacques,  and  dirty  la  Harpe  is  moving.  The 


A  Royai,  BreakfAst. 


43 


gray  Sorb  inne  shoots  out  from  its  cavernous  courts,  hordes  of 
scholar  truants,  and  on  they  sweep,  over  Pont  Neuf,  or 
under  angle  of  sombre  Institute,  hemming  the  Palace,  where 
Royalty’s  breakfast  lies,  half-eaten. 

Troops  that  yesterday  held  position  in  distant  quarters,  are 
retiring  disheartened.  First  comes  Thiers,  who  says — stop 
fighting ;  it  is  I  am  Minister.  Then  comes  Barrot,  who  says — 
it  is  I.  Then  Lamoriciere — not  unpopular,  who  says — it  is  I. 

What  wonder  if  they  ground  their  muskets,  and  say — nous 
verrons ? 

Meantime  Republicans,  slyly  hiding  bourgeois  coat  under 
blouse,  are  not  waiting,  but  pushing  on  the  people  to  what 
they  call  a  people’s  triumph. 

Gun-shots  die  away  in  distance,  and  all  accumulates  around 
the  Palace. 

The  King  is  in  his  Cabinet  with  Thiers,  and  Queen,  and 
Remusat,  and  others.  The  firing  is  coming  nearer.  The 
Proclamation — the  torn  one — is  under  the  King’s  hand. 

The  door  opens,  with  little  ceremony,  and  there  enters  a 
new  man  ; — his  face  all  earnestness,  all  anxiety,  and  yet  full 
of  a  calm  determination. 

- Sire, — lie  says — You  lose  time;  a  half  hour  more, 

and  Royalty  in  France  is  ended.  They  pull  down  your  pro¬ 
clamations  ;  they  will  have  none  of  them. 

The  King,  perplexed,  turns  to  his  Councillors ;  the  Coun¬ 
cillors  shake  their  heads. 

- What  shall  be  done, — que  fairs  ?--says  the  King. 


44 


The  Battle  Summer. 


•  - Abdicate — says  Emile  de  Girardin,  for  be  was  the 

new-comer. 

The  King  lets  his  pen  drop  ;  the  fingers  are  weak  ;  he  has 
but  half-breakfasted. 

A  dreadful  volley  of  musketry  is  heard ;  the  Queen  moves 
quick  to  the  window,  and  clasps  her  hand. 

— Sire,  it  must  be — says  Montpensier. 

— Be  it  so — says  the  King. 

And  Girardin,  his  errand  done,  hurried  away,  breathing 
quick,  pushing  through  dense  masses,  laying  his  hand  on 
threatening  gun-muzzles,  saying— -the  King  has  abdicated ! 
But  who  of  that  crowd  will  believe  one  man’s  voice  ? — It  is 
Girardin — says  one — it  must  be  true. 

•  - It  is  Girardin — says  a  Republican — who  shot  Armand 

Carrel !  We  will  go,  and  see  for  ourselves. 

Away  flies,  eager,  confident  Girardin  ;  his  bustle,  his  sweat, 
his  swift  walking  in  vain :  for  by  the  time  he  shall  have 
reached  Rue  Montmartre,  and  be  seated  at  his  table  once 
more,  his  news  of  abdication  will  not  be  worth  the  paper  it  is 
printed  on. 

The  King  lays  off  the  cordon  of  Legion  of  Honor. 

Then  the  Queen  turns,  with  bitterness  in  her  face — the 
concentered  bitterness  of  eighteen  years  of  faded  Royalty— of 
disappointed  motherhood — of  fresh  wakened  wife-sympathy, 
and  reviles  in  courtly  terms  the  poor,  shrinking,  trembling, 
defenceless  Thiers. 

And  the  great  Minister  gnaws  that  under  lip,  looking  va¬ 
cantly  through  the  deceiving  lunettes ;  and  the  mouth  that 


Chateau  d’Eau. 


45 


was  open  enough,  and  full  enough,  and  pliant  to  excess,  before 
a  Chamber  of  angry  Deputies,  has  no  words  in  it  now. 

The  King  and  Queen  pass  out.  Helen,  Duchess  of  Or¬ 
leans,  in  black  of  widowhood  remains  behind,  her  hands  over 
her  eyes. 

The  royal  pair  has  gone  out  from  the  Palace :  the  royal 
breakfast  half-eaten.  France  has  no  more  a  King. 


IX. 


Chateau  d’Eau. 


PPOSITE  the  Palais  Royal,  which  is  close  upon  the 


Tuilleries,  is  an  open  Square,  where  stand  day  after 
day,  some  fifteen  or  twenty  patient-waiting  hacks,  sleeping  in 
the  sun.  Beyond  these,  and  flanking  the  Square,  is  a  high, 
board  barrier,  stuck  over  with  such  parti-colored  placards  ofi 
Theatre,  Public  Sale,  Lottery,  Jardin  d'TIivcr — as  the  taste 
of  the  hour  may  demand. 

Behind  the  board  barrier,  which  is  of  modern  date,  being 
not  over  a  year  old,  rise  the  battered  and  smoked  remnants 
of  a  small,  low,  palace-like  structure  of  stone.  It  is  the  ruin 
of  the  Chateau  d'Eau — the  Water-Palace. 

In  the  middle  of  its  front,  from  rustic-wrought  alcove,  used 
to  gush  out  a  fountain  of  water,  from  which,  dozens  of  stout 
water-carriers  filled  every  morning  their  iron-rimmed,  oaken 
pails. 


46 


The  Battle  Summer. 


On  either  side,  were  long  windows  double  grated ;  and  at 
corner,  a  door  of  oak  studded  with  iron  spikes.  Loop-holes, 
grated  with  square  bars  were  on  each  side  this  door  ;  and  other 
loop-holes  peeped  out,  here  and  there,  from  between  the 
pilasters,  and  from  amid  the  rustic  work  of  the  Facade. 

While  the  King  was  eating  his  last  royal  breakfast,  the 
throng  of  barricade  builders  had  come  upon  the  Chateau 
d’Eau. 

The  Chateau  was  strong,  and  garnished  with  a  hundred 
and  fifty  troops,  and  the  officer  who  commanded  them  was  of 
stern  mettle.  He  fired  upon  the  advancing  stream  of  blouses, 
and  withdrew  his  men  behind  the  heavy  walls  of  his  Palace. 

The  people  send  up  a  shout  of  Vengeance. 

The  Rue  St.  Honore  traverses  the  Square  before  the  Cha¬ 
teau,  and  three  or  four  small  streets  open  upon  it.  Around 
all  the  corners  formed  by  these  opening  alleys,  the  raging 
mass  lies  crouched,  like  tiger  at  bay !  and  from  all  the  win¬ 
dows  around,  guns  blaze,  and  bullets  flatten  on  the  true  walls 
of  stone. 

From  behind, — from  far  down  toward  Castiglione  colon¬ 
nade,  and  from  Market  des  Innocens ,  National  Guard  hears 
the  firing,  and  pushes  up,  with  musket  trimmed — pushes  into 
the  crouching  mass — pushes  through,  carrying  his  musket  high 
over  his  head — all  hot  with  vengeance,  and  in  the  outermost 
line,  brings  the  black  gun-barrel  to  bear  upon  some  murderous 
slit  of  Chateau  d’Eau. 

But  before  the  mouth  blazes,  the  slit  of  wall  streams  fire — 
the  arm  of  street-guard  palsies — gun-muzzle  clinks  on  the 


47 


Chateau  d ’ E  a  u . 

pavement — the  brave  one  reels — the  outer  ones  catch  him, 
and  straight — another  is  come  to  fill  the  dead  one’s  place. 

From  time  to  time  the  mob  sways  angrily  behiud,  and 
pushes  a  wave  of  the  mass  out  into  open  shot :  the  murderous 
slits  blaze  together,  each  doing  its  dreadful  work,  and  the 
wave  of  people  falls  back  with  great  groans,  marking  its  out¬ 
ermost  flow,  with  scattered  red  stains,  and  fallen  bodies. 

Thousands  are  pressing  up,  and  rage  conquers  fear.  They 
march  out  openly,  to  take  fair,  and  full  aim  if  they  see  even 
so  much  as  a  soldier’s  hand  within  the  cruel  bars. 

But  it  is  dreadfully  unfair  work  ! — One  side,  blouses,  thin 
as  Kentucky  jeans  ;  and  the  other,  walls  a  good  yard  thick. 
One  side,  boasting  Liberty,  reckless  and  maddened,  unused  to 
guns.  The  other  side,  an  easy  working  matter  of  Royal 
mechanism.  On  one  side,  rage,  King-hate,  and  vengeance; 
on  the  other,  coolness,  life-love,  and  discipline. 

Will  Vengeance  win  the  day,  or  will  Discipline  ? 

Vengeance  has  now  gained  the  Palais  Royal,  and  from  up¬ 
per  windows,  and  from  top  of  colonnade  pours  in  its  shot,  upon 
the  grated  windows  of  Chateau  d’Eau.  It  is  near  by,  not  farther 
than  good  robin-killing  distance,  but  the  bars  are  thick,  and 
it  is  doubtful  if  yet,  a  dozen  within  are  disabled . 

Is  there  no  storming  the  place  ? 

Some  few  who  know  not  of  those  doors  studded  with  spikes — 
too  maddened  to  ask — rush  through  the  firing,  and  beat  with 
stock  of  musket.  One  lays  hand  upon  the  window  stanchion, 
as  if  to  wrench  out  good  three-inch  bar  of  iron  ;  but  while  they 
look  from  beyond,  his  hand  stiffens  round  the  stout  iron — his 


48 


The  Battle  Summer. 

musket  clangs  upon  the  step — his  body  sways  inward,  and  the 
yellow  stone  trickles  with  blood.  Brother  and  sister  in  that 
crouching  crowd  are  looking  on ! 

Well  for  them,  if  all,  smitten,  had  died.  Shoulders  are 
dreadfully  shattered  ;  hips  broken  with  musket  ball,  are  mak¬ 
ing  them  fools  with  pain.  The  long  gallery  d’Orleans  is  full 
of  wreck — wrecked  humanity.  Each  side  they  lie,  and  sur¬ 
geons,  with  sleeves  rolled  up,  are  passing,  business-like  from 
one  to  another.  The  glass  roof  shakes  with  groanings. 

There  lie  the  quick-cutting  saws,  the  bullet  tongs,  the  long 
glittering  knives,  the  delicate  tweezers  for  fine  bone-splinters, 
the  nice-coiled  ligaments,  the  baskets  of  lint ;  and  still  the 
work  is  going  on. 

Expensive  Chateau  d’Eau ! 

But  now,  from  through  dirty  St.  Thomas  du  Louvre  como 
the  royal  carriages,  harnessed  to  men  in  blouse.  Boys  set 
fire  to  cushions,  and  as  they  come  the  blaze  catches  the  var¬ 
nished  tops.  The  mass  hoot,  and — their  invention  quickened 
by  fury — they  push  the  burning  carriages  against  the  oaken 
doors  of  Chateau  d’Eau.  The  women,  from  windows,  throw 
down  bed,  and  bagging,  and  faggots.  The  daring  ones,  here 
and  there  shot  down,  pile  on  the  light  combustibles  ;  others 
hid  in  smoke,  rush  up,  and  setting  muzzle  in  very  grating, 
blaze  off. 

The  flames  rise,  and  dry  the  fountain,  and  lick  into  the 
barred  windows, — not  fine  enough  to  shut  off  flame.  Oaken 
shutters  blister,  and  scorch,  and  crack,  and  smoke,  and  blaze 
out,  bright  and  hot. 


Chateau  d’Eau. 


49 


Still  infuriated  blouses  fire,  through  smoke  and  flame,  at 
the  blazing  shutters,  growing  thin.  Within,  shots  are  dimin¬ 
ishing.  The  crowd  taking  courage,  thicken  over  the '  square. 
Away  again,  from  every  window,  and  loon  hole,  bursts  the 
murderous  fire. 

A  new  howl,  a  last  howl  of  vengeance  rises  with  the  smoke. 
Now,  Municipals  are  indeed  doomed.  New  faggots  blaze ; 
there  is  a  crash  within  of  falling  timbers.  The  spiked  door 
opens ; — a  score  of  balls  break  into  the  narrow  scape-hole. 
Blouses  crowd  up  with  bayonets,  and  thrust  them  at  the  door, 
if  it  so  much  as  creak  on  heated  hinges. 

No  guns  now  from  Chateau  d’Eau. 

The  burnt  timbers  crack  ;  at  intervals  there  is  a  light  ex¬ 
plosion,  as  of  burning  cartridges ;  Royal  carriages  are  black 
cinders,  with  wheel  tires  white  with  heat ;  window  shutters  are 
gone  ;  the  lead  pipe  of  fountain  is  melted  off,  and  the  water 
runs  into  the  hissing  embers,  and  bearing  ashes,  and  black 
coal  flakes,  rushes  down  the  gutters,  where  the  blood  is  strag¬ 
gling- 

Guns  have  stopped  without,  as  well  as  within.  The  Cha¬ 
teau  is  the  same  dreadful  ruin,  you  see  it  now,  but  hot  and 
smoking ;  and  fifty  half-burnt  bodies  are  lying  on  the  floor  of 
Guard-room  ! 

And  now  this  barrier  between  populace  and  palace  is  gone  ; 
and  the  crowd  rolls  on  like  great,  wind-driven  wave,  tossing 
from  seaward  :  will  it  dash  into  foam  against  other  rocky 
rampart, — or  will  it  spend  itself  on  low  beach — defenceless 
Tuilleries — throwing  up  drift-wood,  and  wreck  ? 

3 


50 


The  Battle  Summer. 


X. 


Mob  Material. 


HO  now  make  up  this  nomadic  horde,  that  comes 


v  T  t  blackened  from  the  battle,  and  which  will  soon  be 
raging  through  the  brilliant  salons  of  the  Tuilleries  ? 

Are  their  feet  used  to  such  waxed,  shining  floors,  and  are 
their  stomachs  used  to  such  plump  W estplialia  hams,  as  by 


and  by  will  be  sticking  on  their  bayonet  tops — trophies  of 


the  sack  ? 

Let  us  see. 

- That  stout  man,  in  blue  blouse,  (which  we  might  as 

well  call  blue-shirt,  except  for  a  little  plaiting  and  crimping 
at  the  neck)  worn  over  waistcoat ;  and  such  shattered  breeches 
as  belong  to  gamin ,  is  perhaps  workman.  Yesterday,  very 
likely,  he  was  breaking  stone  in  the  yard  of  the  new  foreign 
court — paid  such  dull  pay,  as  kept  him  from  starvation,  by 
kingly  paymasters  :  to-day  he  snatched  a  musket  from  the 
pile  at  the  caserne,  upon  the  Boulevard,  and  has  been  trying 
his  hand  at  sly-shots  from  behind  the  angle  of  the  Cafe  de  la 
Regence.  He  is  not  at  his  work,  because  none  are  there  ;  he 
has  grappled  a  musket,  because  it  was  offered ;  he  has  fired 
at  the  soldiery  because  his  brothers  were  shot  down  ;  he  is 
dashing  toward  the  palace,  because  he  is  maddened. 

- The  boy,  who  flanks  him,  in  cap — scarce  eighteen — 


Mob  Material. 


51 


has  stolen  his  two-barrel  twist  from  the  shop  of  Lepage,  and 
his  cartridge  box  was  lent  him  by  a  good  Republican  Guard. 
His  home  is  Paris  ;  his'  parentage  doubtful  ;  even  his  name 
he  owes  to  committee  of  nurses  at  Foundling  Hospital. 
Sometimes  he  is  shop-boy  ;  sometimes  he  carries  a  big  basket 
at  the  markets  ;  sometimes  he  hawks  a  journal ;  but  oftener 
he  is  living  leisurely  at  that  wide-walled,  young-man,  prison- 
house  of  Roquette.  When  sick,  he  is  sick  at  La  Charite  ; 
and  when  dead,  he  will  be  cut  up  by  the  dirty  students  be¬ 
yond  the  Musee  Dupeytren. 

—  Another,  whose  blouse  is  black-stained,  and  hand  hard, 
is  armorer.  His  eye  is  piercing  ;  his  hair  thick,  and  matted  ; 
his  lip  full,  and  passionate.  He  can  read,  and  he  can  talk  ;  ten 
to  one,  but  at  the  instant,  wiping  the  perspiration  and  blood- 
spots  from  his  face,  with  his  musket  grounded,  and  leaning 
against  his  shoulder,  he  commences  a  wordy  harangue. 

—  Another,  in  thread-bare  black  coat,  which  had  once 
been  Bourgeois,  and  in  pitable,  short-brimmed  hat — with  long 
moustache,  and  cravat  which  wholly  hides  shirt  collar,  if  in¬ 
deed  there  be  shirt  collar  to  hide — is  artist. 

Struggling  with  moderate  merit,  poor  pay,  and  poor  wife 
pining  on  sixth  story  floor,  he  makes  common  cause  with 
whatever  will  drag  down  the  powerful,  and  sides  with  Fourier- 
ite,  or  Communist,  as  passion  may  sway  him.  His  grudge  is 
against  society  ;  and  in  shooting  on  yonder  palace  he  believes 
that  his  ball  will  enter  society’s  gangrenous  heart. 

- A  black-eyed  Corsican,  in  trim  coat  of  Polytechnic, 

pushes  eagerly  among  the  foremost,  dragging  his  thin  sword 


52 


The  Battle  Summer. 


after  him,  and  with  both  hands  hearing  a  musket,  ready  for  a 
charge.  Fight  warms  him  ;  there  is  his  element.  He  has  no 
great  hate  of  kings,  but  immense  love  of  glory.  He  is  hu¬ 
mane  at  heart,  but  passionate,  and  intractable  of  purpose. 
Tell  him  he  must  not  quit  his  student  walls,  and  he  scales 
them  in  face  of  cannon.  Tell  him  that  the  King’s  soldiers 
have  shot  down  an  inoffensive  crowd,  and  he  seizes  the  banner 
and  heads  the  charge.  If  Duchess  of  Orleans  should  come 
to  beg  his  protection  for  herself  and  her  little  sons,  he  would 
turn  his  musket  in  their  defence,  upon  fraternizing  blouse,  oi 
upon  his  fellows  of  the  school. 

- A  stout  Guard  National  is  among  them,  his  head 

bound  with  bloody  rag.  A  dragoon  sabre  cut  has  changed 
him  from  Reformer  to  Republican. — En  avant ! — he  cries — 
to  the  palace  ! — and  his  gaunt  figure,  and  bloody  head  disap¬ 
pear  under  the  tower  of  the  Pavilion  of  the  clock. 

- Glazed-hatted  hackman  has  got  a  gun,  and  his  pocket 

is  bellied  out  with  cartridges.  His  carriage  is  in  a  barricade  ; 
and  his  wife  strides,  red-faced,  and  shouting  at  his  heels. 

- Yonder  is  a  blouse,  in  which  the  crimples  of  the  shop 

are  not  yet  fairly  worked  out.  It  has  a  new,  fresh,  cottony 
smell.  The  head  above  it,  is  white  and  fair  ; — a  head  that 
has  leaned  watchful  over  books  and  bureau.  Eyes  are  mov¬ 
ing  restlessly  everywhere — they  have  had  no  sleep  these  three 
nights  ;  hands  are  white,  and  they  pinch  the  gun-stock,  with 
nervous  grip,  as  if  they  would  leave  their  prints  in  the  wood. 
He  looks  with  keen  scorn  upon  the  windows  of  the  palace, 
and  scorn  too  upon  the  soldiery, — gross  implements — sneers 


Mob  Ma  t  e  r  i  a  l  . 


53 


be — of  grosser  tyranny  !  Finer  implements  are  pricking  in 
his  brain,  and  finer  tyranny !  He  is  enthusiastic  ;  perhaps 
fanatic,  from  office  of  Reforme  or  Democratic  Pacifique.  His 
wild  frenzy  lights  the  dull  ones  ;  his  zeal  warms  the  timid : 
and  he  himself  is  borne  on  by  the  tide  his  own  extravagance 
creates.  A  strong  feeler, — a  crazy  thinker  ;  humane  and 
impulsive  ;  vehement  and  yet  kind  ;  thoughtless,  and  yet 
consumed  with  thought,  he  is  the  blazing  soul,  and  centre,  of 
a  mad  cohort  of  blouses. 

Vengeance  has  cruel  representatives ; — a  woman  is  there, 
with  musket  not  awkwardly  held  aloft ; — a  white  muslin  cap 
borders  face,  from  which  you  cannot  take  off  eyes — it  is  so 
full,  so  maddened,  so  resolute.  The  thin  lips  tremble  ;  the 
eye  shoots  fire  ;  the  cheeks  are  bloated ;  the  brow  most 
strangely  drawn  together  ; — the  dress  all  disordered. 

Her  light  arm  shrinks  not  with  the  weight  of  a  heavy  mus¬ 
ket  ;  her  foot  splashed  with  Chateau  red  stains,  treads  careless 
of  blood,  or  wounded  ;  red  cap-ribbons  stream  behind,  as  she 
levels  her  musket,  into  the  curtained  window  of  a  palace. 

Her  son’s  body  lies  stiffening  in  the  sun,  on  the  Square  of 
Chateau  d’Eau,  and  her  lips  murmur  audibly — Vengeance ! 

—  Beware,  Helen,  Duchess  of  Orleans!  beware,  little 
Count  of  Paris  ! — a  tigress,  whose  cub  is  shot,  is  coming  ! 


54 


The  Battle  Summer 


XI. 


Tuilleries. 

AN  empty  palace  !  The  half  eaten  breakfast  remains  on 
the  Royal  table.  Up,  up,  by  staircase  of  Pavilion,  by 
staircase  of  Staff  National,  by  staircase  of  the  Seine,  the 
hooting  crowd  pushes  on. 

Now  indeed  abdication  is  certain  ;  for  there  is  no  King, 
but  Barricaders,  Guards  National,  Republicans,  white-capped 
women,  Polytechnics,  glazed-hatted  cab-men — whatever  you 
will.  Crowded  four  abreast,  through  the  kingly  doors,  they 
burst  madly  on,  glutting  their  eyes  on  damask,  and  soft  chairs. 

The  boldest  shout — bravo  has  le  Roi  ! — and  fire  their 

muskets  from  the  windows.  The  timid  sit  in  corners  on 
Canape — their  musket  across  their  knees,  watching  and  won¬ 
dering. 

Women  fling  down  their  muskets,  and  feel  of  damask  table 
covers. 

Artists  take  off  their  bayonets,  and  examine  curiously, 
mosaic  and  tapestry. 

The  Republican  smiles  sternly,  and  marching  straight  to 
throne  room,  instinct  guiding  him,  stands  boldly  on  cushioned 
throne,  and  makes  his  musket  stock  ring  upon  the  gilded  frame 
work. 

—  Away  into  the  wing  toward  Rivoli — into  Duchess  of 
Orleans’  rooms,  breaks  a  fragment  of  the  multitude.  The 


Tuilleries. 


55 


Duchess  is  gone ;  her  book  lies  turned  up  upon  the  table, 
where  she  read  ;  little  paper  soldiers  strew  the  carpet,  where 
Due  de  Chartres  was  playing  at  mimic  war.  Dresses  lie 
strewed  here  and  there  ;  gilt-braided  cap  of  Count  of  Paris, 
and  hussar,  braid-covered  jacket  of  the  little  Duke. 

Within,  farther  on,  in  chamber,  are  the  cap  and  epaulettes  of 
poor  Duke  of  Orleans,  guarded  with  holy  reverence  by  the 
widowed  Duchess.  These  the  crowd  spares  ;  and  it  pauses, 
leaving  the  book  in  its  place  upon  the  table  ; — she  will  find,  if 
she  find  it  at  all,  the  page,  the  same  ;  the  paper  soldiers  lie 
strewed,  as  the  Duke  strewed  them,  on  the  carpet ;  and  even 
lace-bordered  monchoir  lies  untouched  upon  the  sofa. 

- But  not  so  of  King  rooms.  The  throne  passes  out, 

hurly-burly,  borne  on  four  stout  shoulders  ;  down  go  crimson 
canopy  and  hangings ;  damask  in  long  strips  streams  out  of 
the  windows,  and  the  crowds  below  catch  them,  and  tearing 
them,  make  red  flags  to  stick  in  their  musket  muzzles. 

Out  gp  gilded  tables,  and  statues  of  King  and  Queen,  and 
paintings.  Above  and  below,  the  whole  building  is  now 
swarming.  From  cellar  grating,  they  pass  up  mouldy-topped 
bottles  of  wine  ;  and  sitting  on  fragments  of  Royal  furniture 
and  on  national  drums,  they  drink — confusion  to  the  Royal 
runaway. 

Salutes  are  firing  from  palace  roof,  and  a  drunken  Mar¬ 
seillaise  is  breaking  out  from  the  wine  vaults  below. 

Troops,  all  of  them,  with  Nemours  at  their  head,  are  gone, 
and  the  people  are  master  of  court  and  palace. 


56 


The  Battle  Summer 


XII. 


Who  is  Ruler? 


THU!*  far,  palace-work  has  been  easy  work  ;  the  King 
has  easily  fled  ;  the  deluge  of  people  has  flown  easily 
in,  filling  up,  in  their  way,  council  chamber,  and  sleeping 
cabinet. 

If  chasing  away  scared  King,  and  filling  up  with  extempo¬ 
raneous,  working-man’s  army  his  palace,  were  all — the  work 
is  now  done.  Monarchy  is  beaten  ;  Democracy  is  victor. 

But  is  this  all  ?  Alas  !  no  ; — for  even  now,  much  of  the 
sinew  of  this  populous  army  is  reeling  from  the  cellar,  grown 
stupid  upon  Royal  wines  ;  and  so  far  from  leading  off  some 
twenty  odd  millions  of  Frenchmen,  safely  and  soundly, — can¬ 
not  itself  go  straight,  and  begs  the  arm  of  little  girl,  that  it 
may  be  led  safely  home  ! 

The  work  of  strong  hands,  and  stout  hearts  has  been  done  ; 
now  comes  temperance-work,  and  brain-work. 

Are  they  equal  to  it  ?  Will  this  great  roaring  horde,  rock¬ 
ing  still  like  an  angry  sea,  around  every  palace  avenue,  quiet 
itself,  and  at  night,  go  quietly  home  ?  Can  anxious-souled 
mothers,  and  faint-hearted  strangers,  sleep  tranquilly,  after 
such  strong  day’s  work  ? 

Will  merchant-palace  stand,  when  King-palace  has  fallen  ? 
Will  this  day’s  drinkers  of  Louis’  Johannesbergqr,  go  back 


Chamber  of  Deputies. 


57 


to-morrow  to  sour  butts  of  corner  wine-shops  ?  WilF  these 
blouse-men,  who  sup  in  Tuilleries  to-day,  hammer  stone  to¬ 
morrow,  at  ten  sous  a  perch  ? 

Is  man  a  reasonable  animal,  or  is  he  not  ?  And  if  reason¬ 
able,  which  way  will  he  go  ; — and  if  unreasonable,  where  will 
he  stop  ? 

What  have  meant  those  red  flags  hanging  so  high,  and 
threateningly  on  barricades  ?  Where  lies  the  head  that  can 
persuade,  or  the  hand  that  can  compel  this  stirred-up  city  of 
Paris,  to  be  calm,  and  merciful,  and  to  sleep  ?  Whither,  in 
all  this  Gaul-land,  shall  we  look  for  it  ? 

We  will  look  first  at  that  old  main-spring,  and  regulator, 
which  by  dint  of  oiling,  and  filing,  and  patching,  has  given  a 
sort  of  regularity  to  the  current  of  events  through  ten  years 
past ;  and  see  if  there  be  any  motive  force,  and  regulating 
action  left  in  it  yet.  Failing  of  it  there,  we  will  look  else¬ 
where. 


XIII. 


Chamber  of  Deputies. 


NOT  a  half  a  mile  away  from  the  south-west  angle  of  the 
Tuilleries,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine,  rising  stately 
from  the  river  banks,  and  fronting  the  bridge,  and  Place  de 
la  Concorde,  and  the  Royal  street,  and  the  Greek  portico  of 
the  magnificent  Madaleine,  stands  the  Palace  of  the  Deputies. 
3* 


5S 


The  Battle  Summer. 


Within  its  walls,  were  gathered  for  the  last  time,  on  that 
24th  of  February  noon,  the  shattered  remnants  of  the  broken 
machine  of  Government. 

Eager  footsteps  have  hurried  that  day  to  that  Palace  of 
Deputies.  Everywhere  street-bands  had  been  triumphant ; 
but  street-triumph  counted  little,  until  that  legislative  heart — 
that  lung  which  arterialized  French  blood — was  right. 

The  street-bands  crowd  up,  eager  to  learn  if  their  work  be 
wholly  done.  Supporters  of  late  Government  are  coming  to 
their  seats  made  sacred  by  the  laws,  hopeful  still  that  mere 
vote-machinery  may  stay  the  storm.  The  Ministry  alone, 
wiser  than  their  adherents,  are  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

The  members  of  opposition  are  some  of  them  gleeful  in  tri¬ 
umph  ; — others  listening  doubtfully  to  that  roaring  street- 
music.  Republicans  most  eager  of  all,  and  most  earnest,  are 
crowding  in,  armed  and  unarmed,  saying  under  breath,  through 
closed  teeth — we  will  have  our  will ! 

On  the  seats  of  the  Deputies  they  were  not  indeed  numerous, 
but  they  looked  with  confidence  upon  the  armed  companies 
which  filled  the  tribunes,  and  which  crowded  the  corridors  of 
the  Palace. 

The  little  faction  of  Legitimists,  so  -long,  living  in  quiet, 
were  chuckling  over  the  disorder,  which  had  upset  an  upstart 
throne.  The  thin  face  of  Jesuitic  Abbe  Genoude  was  lit  up 
with  unwonted  fire ;  and  the  round,  full  visage  of  stout 
Rochejacquelin,  wore  smile  of  strangely  good  humor. 

Rumors  had  come  of  one  concession  after  another  ; — of  the 
Thiers  Ministry — of  that  of  Barrot — of  the  abdication — of  the 


An  Omen. 


59 


flight  even ;  but  as  yet  nothing  was  certain.  Even  the  dreadful 
slaughter  of  the  Chateau  d’Eau  had  reached  the  ears  of  most 
on  the  Deputy  benches  only  as  rumor,  and  hung  over  them 
all,  like  a  dark  cloud-shadow. 

It  is  the  seat  of  a  Kingdom’s  law-makers,  but  law-makers 
for  the  Kingdom  are  trembling.  Brawny  arms  clad  in  blue 
shirts  hang  threatening  on  every  range  of  gallery  Stout- 
clawed  vultures  are  flapping  around  the  carcass  of  the  dying 
Power. 


XIY. 


An  Omen. 


HIERS  has  come.  The  man  strong  in  words, — the 


JL  great  small  man,  the  leader  of  July,  the  orator,  pushes 
in.  A  throng  presses  round  him — hides  him.  What  does 
Thiers  say  ?  Questionings  are  eager,  hot,  and  loud. — Hark, 
now.  The  leader  of  July  runs  his  eye  aloft  over  the  scowling 
looks.  Is  there  any  comfort  there,  Monsieur  Thiers  ? 

That  gray  head  of  his  shakes  uncertain  ;  he  raises  his  white 
hat,  high  as  he  can  reach,  and  waving  it,  as  a  cockle  shell 
would  toss  on  sea-waves,  says, — The  flood  is  mounting — 
mounting — mounting  ! 

And  the  gray  head,  and  the  white  hat  go  down. 


60 


The  Battle  Summer 


XV. 


Another  Comer. 


SAUZET,  last  President  of  royal  chamber  rings  his  bell. 

Barrot  in  dirty  cab,  with  lialloos  following  after  him, 
is  rolling  along  the  Quay  to  Ministry  of  Interior.  He  is  a 
composed,  stately  man,  and  he  fingers  in  his  vest  pocket  for  a 
two-franc  piece  to  pay  the  cab-man,  as  if  he  were  going  to  say 
mass  at  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette. 

% 

That  wave  of  clamor  passes,  and  another  little  cortege 
humbler,  quieter,  more  timid,  passes  swift  along  the  Quays. 

First,  is  an  officer  in  full  dress ;  then,  a  lady  in  black, 
leading  a  little  boy  by  the  hand  ;  then,  a  second  officer,  bear¬ 
ing  another  child  in  his  arms.  The  little  boy  who  is  foremost, 
half  runs  to  keep  pace  with  the  quick  step  of  his  mother. 

The  passers  look  curiously  on  ;  some  whisper ;  some  stare 

* 

idly,  and  pass  by.  They  do  not  know  they  are  looking  at  the 
heir  of  the  House  of  Orleans — the  newly  proclaimed  boy-King 
of  France. 

They  are  hastening  to  that  Chamber  of  Deputies,  but 
hasten  as  they  may,  they  will  find  the  multitude  before  them. 
The  same  host  which  drove  the  little  Duke  of  Chartres  from 
his  pasteboard  soldiers  in  the  palace  of  the  Duchess,  will  drive 
him  from  the  Palace  of  the  Deputies. 

Even  as  the  widowed  Duchess,  with  tired  step  disappears 
within  the  iron  gate-way,  a  young  girl  mounted  upon  charger, 


Another  Comer. 


61 


wearing  the  red  cap  of  liberty,  and  bearing  banner  on  which 
is  written  Long  live  the  Republic,  is  heading  a  motley  host, 
that  comes  like  an  Eastern  storm  in  winter,  driving  fast  over 
the  Place  of  Concord. 

Which  shall  win  the  day  ? — Young,  red-capped,  new- 
mounted,  tiring-woman,  or  widowed  Duchess  ? — boastful, 
hopeful,  strength-ful,  heart-full  Republic,  or  starched,  stiff- 
stepping,  shadowy  Monarchy  ? 

Three  chairs  are  placed  before  the  tribune  in  the  Chamber 
of  the  Assembly,  for  the  Duchess  and  her  sons.  With  eager 
haste,  some  etiquette-loving  sergeant-at-arms — throne-mad 
servitor — removes  the  middle  chair,  and  sets  a  velvet-lined 
fauteuil  in  its  place.  Poor  stickler  for  velvet,  and  arm-chair  ! 
He  does  not  know,  very  likely  he  does  not  care,  that  at  the 
very  moment,  the  crowd  are  whooping  joyously  on  the  wide 
Place  Bastille,  around  a  blazing  arm-chair — sole  plunder  of 
the  wrecked  Palace — the  throne  of  Philippe  ! 

And  now  they  are  there.  The  Duchess  in  her  fauteuil  strug¬ 
gling  hard  with  her  woman’s  feelings,  and  bearing  bravely,  as 
a  strong-minded  woman  can,  with  weight  of  care,  and  trial,  and 
doubt.  Little  Count  of  Paris,  in  black  jacket,  with  plaited 
muslin  collar,  looks  up,  and  around,  with  the  air  of  a  wonder¬ 
ing,  half-frightened  boy.  Little  brother  of  Chartres,  plies  his 
hand  into  the  folds  of  his  mother’s  robe  for  confidence  :  poor 
boy !  he  had  far  rather  be  at  his  paste-board  soldiers,  on  the 
tapestried  carpet. 

Cold,  court-looking  Nemours  is  at  their  side,  brilliant  in  his 
dress  of  General  officer. 


62 


The  Battle  Summer. 


Strange  silence  that  is  not  meant,  hangs  around  eager  gal¬ 
leries  of  spoilers  and  hopers. 

Shall  the  Duchess  speak,  or  who  shall  ? 


XYI. 


The  Talk  Begins. 


LD  Dupin,  known  at  the  desks  of  the  Schools  of  Law, 


and  whose  harsh  visage  had  grinned  over  the  oaken 
seats  of  the  amphitheatre  by  the  Pantheon,  in  exposition  of  so 
many,  and  short-lived  Constitutions  of  France,  makes  himself 
now  the  usher,  and  pleader  for  the  Princess. 

But  Dupin  has  now  uglier  auditors  than  grim-faced,  gri- 
sette-loving  Students  at  Law. 

A  few  faint  ‘  long  lifes  !’  to  Count  of  Paris,  rise  up  from  the 
Deputy  benches ;  but  a  sullen  murmur  runs  along  behind 
them,  and  lingers  after  the  ‘  long  lifes’  are  dead. 

The  bell  of  President  Sauzet  is  with  Dupin,  and  Prince ; 
but  the  bell  of  Sauzet  is  feeble.  French  gallantry  is  hid  un¬ 
der  blouse  of  gallery.  The  daring  Duchess  grows  timid,  and 
the  timid  boy-king  fairly  frightened 

They  are  gone  now  to  the  further  range  of  seats,  by  the 
further  door  of  the  Chamber. 


The  Talk  Begins. 


63 


M.  Marie  of  Auxerre,  lias  proposed  a  Provisional  Govern¬ 
ment. 

Barrot  lias  come  back  from  bis  telegraphic  despatches.  He 
will  find  harder  work  in  the  Chamber  than  he  has  found  in  the 
street.  Three  days  ago,  and  his  appearance  at  such  tribune 
would  have  been  hailed  with  huzzas.  Men  have  lived  fast  in 
those  three  days. 

Now,  his  calm,  dignified,  cold,  judge-like  elocution,  strikes 
on  the  heated  ears  of  that  great  company,  with  as  little  agree¬ 
ment,  and  efficacy,  as  a  faint  north-breeze,  rustling  over  a 
sea,  stirred  with  Sahara  Simoon. 

And  he  speaks ;  and  the  Duchess  bows  acknowledgment ; 
and  little  Count  bows  ; — prettily  scenic,  and  the  French  love 
scenes  ;  but  now  consummate  acting  was  not  enough. 

Fat  Rochejacquelin,  in  white  cravat,  bushy  hair,  round  red 
cheeks,  and  eye  pleasantly  vermillioned  with  his  snug  Breton 
wine-vaults,  rolls  to  the  Tribune.  It  was  the  voice  of  cider 
Bourbon,  of  forgotten  Legitimacy  praying  again  to  be  heard — 
asking  appeal  to  the  nation. 


64 


The  Battle  Summer. 


XVII. 


A  New  Phase. 


IHE  lower  doors  push  open,  as  if  the  summoned  nation  was 


JL  ready  with  an  answer, — a  strong,  swift-moving,  not  dis¬ 
orderly  throng,  in  which  you  see  mingled,  coat  of  guardsmen, 
blue-shirt  of  workmen,  and  white,  red  stained  apron  of  butcher- 
boy,  whose  cleaver  gleams  among  the  bayonets. 

Curious  eyes  look  on  this  irruption  ;  most  of  all  from  a  news¬ 
paper-reporting  box,  where  sits  keen-glancing  Marrast.  He 
regards  suspiciously  that  new  silk  banner,  which  the  foremost 
of  the  throng  waves  out.  It  is  new  ;  it  is  un trampled ;  the 
silk  is  glossy  ;  the  fringe  is  rich  and  full. 

—  It  is  no  barricade  banner — murmurs  he  ; — the  mob,  is  a 
monarchy  mob.  And  away  he  goes,  searching  the  True  People. 

The  brawny  shoulders  of  Ledru  Rollin  loom  up  now  in  the 
Tribune,  and  his  strong  voice  reaches  from  side  to  side  of  the 
shaking  Chamber. 

—  Aye,  you  talk  plaintively — says  he — of  liberty  and 
order,  and  bloodshed,  aye — bloodshed  !  Think  you  not  that 
it  touches  our  hearts  ?  Three  thousand  men  are  dead  ! 

And  the  butcher-boy  yonder,  maddened  at  that  gross  num¬ 
ber,  raises  his  cleaver,  and  mounts  the  benches,  and  shakes  his 
weapon  at  the  Duchess,  and  at  the  trembling  boy-king. 

The  Deputies  surround  the  butcher-lad,  and  take  from  him 
the  gleaming  cleaver. 


A  New  Man. 


65 


XVIII. 


A  New  Man. 


A  GALLANT-LOOKING  man,  tall  and  stately  and  dig¬ 
nified,  with  hair  silvered,  whom  we  have  seen  before,  in 
the  street  of  the  Seine,  is  at  the  Tribune — a  man  destined  to 
more  extravagant  adulation,  and  to  more  undeserved  calumny, 
than  ever  overtook  another,  in  so  short  space  of  tune — the 
man,  Lamartine. 

There  were  many  reasons  why  he  should  be  listened  to  now 
with  respect,  and  why  all  should  be  curious  to  see  how  he 
bore  himself  in  one  of  the  most  singular  emergencies  which 
have  belonged  to  French  History. 

A  Politician,  in  the  proper  sense  of  that  word  he  had  never 
been ;  nor  had  he  been  Advocate, — nor  man  of  Business, — ■ 
nor  yet  Statesman.  But  he  was  known  to  be  Poet,  and  Ora¬ 
tor,  and  Philanthropist ;  and  being  all  these,  Deputies  were 
curious  to  see  if  he  would  be  defender  of  Princess,  or  defender 
of  Republic. 

His  family  had  been  titled  ;  his  bearing  was  noble.  He 
had  wealth  enough — talk  as  he  will  in  his  confidences — to 
make  for  him  rank,  with  such  as  took  rank, — as  many  do  take 
rank — from  liveries  and  display. 

He  had  been  attached  to  the  private  service  of  the  last 
of  the  old  Bourbon  branch :  he  had  retired,  and  wandered 
under  the  preceding,  short-lived  Empire :  he  had  held  di- 


66 


The  Battle  Summer. 


plomatic  position  afterward :  he  had  made  a  Childe  Harold 
pilgrimage  through  Europe  and  the  East,  and  had  returned, 
with  name  of  easy  verse-maker,  accomplished  gentleman, 
warm-hearted  observer,  to  make  himself  Orator,  and — if  the 
State  was  willing, — Statesman. 

Not  attached  to  either  of  the  political  parties  by  any  lien 
of  birth,  or  association,  or  profession,  he  had  the  confidence 
of  neither. 

The  Opposition  applauded  when  his  Sapphic  periods  were 
directed  against  the  tyranny  of  the  Cabinet ;  and  Guizot,  and 
Hebert  looked  approval  when  he  dissented  from  the  strategic 
schemes  of  Thiers  or  Barrot.  He  had  been  listened  to, 
rather  because  of  his  eloquence,  than  because  of  his  influence  ; 
and  he  held  the  sympathies  of  the  people,  because  he  bewail¬ 
ed  their  misfortunes,  and  upbraided  their  oppressors. 

Clubbists  of  Rue  de  Seine  knew  well  his  Republican  views, 
and  welcomed  him  to  that  day’s  stormy  Tribune,  with  clamor. 

Even  Reform  Deputies  lent  to  it  an  echo  ;  for  they  had  a 
hope  that  Jris  poetic  sensibilities  would  be  touched  by  the 
woes  of  fallen  monarchy,  and  that  the  weeds  of  the  Duchess 
would  win  upon  his  imagination ; — dnd  to  his  imagination, 
they  were  in  the  habit  of  ‘crediting  his  speeches 

Legitimists  may  have  possibly  fancied  that  the  young  Aide- 
de-camp,  in  the  suite  of  Charles  Tenth,  bore  yet  pleasant 
souvenirs  of  his  Court-life,  and  would  be  happy  to  join  his 
destinies  with  some  in-coming  monarch. 

The  adherents  of  the  fallen  Ministry  were  not  displeased 
perhaps  to  welcome  a  poetic,  and  dreamy  talker — as  they 


A  New  Man. 


G7 


counted  him — to  disturb,  and  confuse  with  his  speculations 
the  too  practical  current  of  Reform. 

The  galleries  cheered  from  the  beginning.  Those  rough 
mob-men  admired  the  tall  and  dignified  figure  of  the  speaker. 
There  was  something  in  the  benevolent  expression  of  his  face, 
which  touched  their  sympathies.  His  silvery  tones  were  like 
music,  and  when  as  he  progressed,  they  found  him  pouring 
out  his  eloquence,  against  a  Regency,  and  in  favor  of  a  Gov¬ 
ernment  of  their  adoption,  their  enthusiasm  hurst  forth  like  a 
torrent,  from  the  yielding  frosts  of  Winter. 

History-writers — -the  Orator  himself  among  them — will 
hand  down  this  Speech  to  Posterity  as  a  great  speech :  yet 
it  was  not  a  long  speech,  nor  a  brilliant  speech,  nor  had  it 
much  Rhetoric  in  it,  except  that  best  of  Rhetoric, — adap¬ 
tation  ;  and  it  had  the  best  kind  of  greatness  in  a  speech — 
effect. 

It  was  the  hinge  of  Lamartine’s  political  career. 

Let  us  analyze  it : — I  pity  the  Princess — he  began :  and 
"the  Princess,  and  the  Princess’  friends  took  courage ;  and  a 
slight  tremor  of  disapprobation  ran  round  the  galleries. 

—  But  pity — continued  he=— is  a  passion  ;  another  wave  of 
feeling,  kindred  to  that  which  has  rolled  us  hither,  and  which 
in  an  hour,  may  roll  us  away.  Shall  such  rolling  basis  be 
our  basis  ? 

And  the  galleries  broke  into  applauding  clamor ;  and  the 
Princess  drew  tight  her  veil ;  and  the  old  white-haired  man  at 
foot  of  the  tribune,  made  his  sword  rattle  back  into  its  sheath. 

—  Where  then  shall  we  find  a  basis  ? — and  he  elevated  his 


68 


The  Battle  Summer. 


tone  to  the  highest, — only  in  going  to  the  heart  of  the  country , 
and  in  drawing  out  thence,  if  I  may  so  say,  that  grand  mys¬ 
tery  of  National  right ,  from  which  springs  all  order,  all 
truth,  all  liberty  !# 

In  this,  the  Poet  had  spoken  dreamily,  but  had  spoken  as  if 
inspired  ;  and  the  Poet’s  hymn  was  better  for  that  gallery-mob 
than  a  Statesman’s  reason. 

—  Finally — said  he — and  now  the  Expedient  Man  was 
getting  the  better  of  the  dreamy  Poet — we  want  a  government 
which  shall  put  an  end  to  misunderstanding — which  shall  give 
us  time  to  see  where  we  stand,  and  organize  for  us  such  elec¬ 
tive  action,  as  shall  secure  to  us  a  Government  of  popular 
representation. 

- That  is  it — that  is  it  (c’es£  cela  !)  and  bravo  !— burst 

forth  from  back-left  benches  and  corridor,  and  not  a  dissen¬ 
tient  voice  can  make  itself  heard  in  the  clamor. 

—  The  names — give  us  the  names  of  the  Provisional  Gov¬ 
ernment — shouted  the  House. 

The  Regency  was  dead,  and  a  Republic  was  born.  Lamar¬ 
tine  was  executioner  ;  and  Lamartine  was  accoucheur. 

*  Comment  trouver  cette  base  ?  En  descendant  dans  le  fond  meme  du  pays,  en 
allant  extraire ,  pour  ainsi  dire ,  ce  grand  mystere  du  droit  National ,  d'ou  sort  tout 
or  Ire,  tj  ite  vtidte,  toute  liberte.  Compte-rendu  Moniteur  {seance  du  24  Fevrier.) 


A  New  President. 


69 


A  N  e  w 


XIX. 

President 


MARRAST  who  had  gone  out  to  look  for  the  true 
people,  has  now  come  hack,  and  his  host  break  in  at 
doorway,  and  window,  and  spread  along  the  gallery ;  and  an 
earnest  one  levels  his  musket  at  Lamartine,  as  he  would  at  a 
partridge.  But  the  bystanders  beat  up  the  muzzle  ;  and  the 
condemnation — for  shame  !  it  is  Lamartine — comes  up  from 
below. 

The  banner  these  men  carried  was  no  new  silk  one,  with 
heavy  fringe,  and  tassel,  but  a  damaged  bunting  that  had  sben 
fearful  barricade  service.  There  were  few  dresses  of- general 
officers  in  the  company ;  but  plenty  of  blouses,  and  of  dusty 
workmen’s  caps. 

One  of  these  new  men  has  caught  sight  of  the  glittering 
dress  of  Nemours,  and  levels  his  musket  at  him — but  the  mur¬ 
derous  aim  is  again  beaten  off,  and  Duke  and  Duchess  dis¬ 
turbed,  creep  out.  Away  they  go — frightened,  pressed,  jos¬ 
tled,  anxious,  insulted,  fugitives  of  Royalty,  mindful  in  that 
pass,  only  of  life,  more  to  be  pitied  than  humblest  guardsman, 
■ — fond  cherishers  of  that  existence  we  all  love  so  much — away 
they  go,  Duke  and  Duchess,  out  of  the. Chamber — forever  ! 

The  Duke  finds  a  cabinet,  where  a  coat  of  a  guardsman 
saves  him.  The  Duchess  plunges  through  lower  street  of 


70 


The  Battle  Summer. 


University,  into  Hotel  of  Invalides,  and  there  among  wooden¬ 
legged  soldiers,  hides  Regent-pretensions  until  she  can  safely 
escape. 

Sauzet,  meantime,  last  President  of  Royal  Chamber  has 
put  on  his  hat,  and  under  growing  menace  has  retired.  The 
blouses  have  dropped  down  from  the  galleries,  upon  the  floor  : 
muskets  are  handed  to  them, — whatever  the  Sergeants-at- 
arms  may  say — and  the  spaces  around  the  tribune,  are  glitter¬ 
ing  with  bayonets. 

It  is  no  longer  Chamber,  of  Deputies. 

Thiers  is  gone  ;  Barrot  is  gone  ;  Sauzet  is'gone. 

Genoude,  and  Rochejacquelin  yet  lingered — the  types  of  the 
old  rule,  among  the  masters  and  organizers  of  the  new.  It 
was  not  a  little  singular  to  see  thus,  the  strongest  of  feudal 
monarchists  acting  in  harmony  with  the  most  violent  of  Re¬ 
publicans.  Extremes  were  touching.  And  there  were  those 
who  augured  from  the  very  fact,  a  state  of  quietude,  because 
of  agreement,  which  thus  far  eludes  hope. 

A  new  man,  and  yet  a  man  who  trembles  with  weight  of 
years,  makes  his  way  'to  the  vacant  seat  of  the  President  Sau¬ 
zet. 

His  history,  more  perhaps  than  his  abilities  had  made  this 
man  extraordinary.  He  was  almost  the  only  one  of  an  old 
race — of  a  generation  in  which  lived  and  acted  Talleyrand, 
and  Lafayette,  and  Fouche,  and  the  brilliant  Court  of  the 
Emperor, — who  was  destined  to  belong  actively  to  the  crea¬ 
tion,  and  subsistence  of  the  new  Revolution. 

Even  before  the  execution  of  Louis  XVI. — before  even  the 


President  of  Assembly. 


71 


famous  Ninth  of  August,  or  the  escape,  and  capture  of  Var- 
ennes,  he  had  been  advocate  to  the  Parliament  of  Rouen.  In 
the  time  of  Robespierre,  he  had  been  Judge  in  the  old  city  of 
Louviers ;  he  had  been  member  of  the  famous  Council  of  Five 
Hundred,  President  of  the  Court  of  Appeals  under  the  Em¬ 
pire — had  been  Deputy  under  Louis  XVIII.  and  had  been  the 
senior  of  Louis  Philippe’s  Ministers,  as  far  back  as  1S31. 
He  possessed  uncommon  sincerity,  mingled  with  bluntness. 
He  had  good  sense,  application  to  business,  and  unwearied  in¬ 
dustry.  He  was  not  brilliant,  nor  was  he  an  orator.  He  had 
always  been  Republican  ;  and  left  the  Dynasty  of  July,  only 
when  it  disappointed  the  hopes  of  its  founders,  and  the  pro¬ 
mises  of  the  King. 

—  And  now,  in  his  eighty-first  year,  he  is  seated  in  the  chair 
of  Deputies,  controlling  as  he  best  can,  with  his  honest,  but 
feeble  voice,  the  most  boisterous  assembly  that  France  has 
known  for  fifty  years.  His  heavy  head  falls  within  his  slouch¬ 
ing  shoulders ;  his  features  prominent,  and  large,  are  now 
lank  and  leathern  ;  a  little  brown  wig  covers  his  baldness,  and 
an  eyebrow,  bent  and  jagged, — half  grey,  half  black, — shields 
an  eye,  still  piercing,  and  quick  as  youth. 

They  receive  him  with  the  shout, — Long  live  Dupont  de 
l’Eure  ! 


72 


The  Battle  Summer 


XX. 


The  Power  is  Made,  and  Moves 


THIS  Dupont,  an  Octogenarian,  is  named  by  acclama¬ 
tion,  first  of  the  Provisional  Government. 

Then  follow,  fast  as  they  can  be  heard,  and  applause  sanc¬ 
tion  them, — the  names  of  Lamartine,  Ledru  Rollin,  of 
Marie,  of  Cremieux,  of  Gamier  Pages.  That  of  George 
Lafayette  is  proposed  ;  but  it  creates  murmurs.  The  Assem¬ 
bly  have  in  mind,  thus  late,  the  old  temporising  spirit  of  the 
General,  and  this  memory  crushes  the  hopes  of  the  son. 

A  voice  is  heard — to  the  Hotel  de  Ville  ! 

And  with  Lamartine  at  the  head,  half  of  the  assemblage 
passes  out,  and  follows  the  Quay  in  the  direction  of  Notre 
Dame. 

—  It  was  three  o’clock  of  a  mild  February  afternoon ;  the 
sun  was  lighting  pavement  and  river,  and  the  light  blue  smoke 
of  Paris  winter  was  hanging  softly  on  the  fagade  of  Palace, 
and  on  the  brown  Pont  Neuf,  and  on  the  tiled  house-tops  of 
the  city. 

Acclamations  burst  forth  from  the  other  side  of  the  river, 
and  handkerchiefs  were  waved  from  the  terrace  of  the  Gar¬ 
den.  Curious  eyes  looked  down  from  all  the  windows,  along 
the  Quay  Voltaire ;  stray  companies  of  soldiers  grounded 
their  arms,  and  lifted  then-  schakos.  Banners  were  shaken 
from  palace  balconies  ;  guns  streamed  fire  from  the  opposite 


The  Power  is  Made,  and  Moves.  73 

casements  of  the  Tuilleries,  and  echoed  against  the  tall  caserne 
of  the  Dragoons. 

The  bridges  thronged  with  men  and  w^nen  ;  and  strangers 
stood  upon  the  parapets,  waving  their  hats,  as  the  new 
Power  passed  on,  begirt  with  its  joyous  people  army,  toward 
the  Palace  of  the  City. 

4 


i 


V 


- 1 


. 


* 


Blouse  anfr  fkotrisiouaL 


BLOUSE  AND  PROVISIONAL. 


I. 


The  Hotel  de  Ville. 


HE  Palace  of  the  City  is  the  stately  Hotel  de  Villc. 


_L  It  stands  at  the  nucleus  of  long,  dirty,  noisy,  people- 
streets.  Noisy  stone-bridges  join  if  to  the  Island  of  the 
Seine,  and  the  purlieus  of  Notre  Dame,  and  the  minaretted 
Palace  of  Justice.  A  long,  full-peopled  alley,  called  Rue  St. 
Antoine,  connects  it  with  the  Place  of  the  Bastille  ;  and  the 
long  roads  of  St.  Martin,  and  of  St.  Denis,  join  it  to  the  sub¬ 
urbs  of  those  names. 

The  germ  was  lying  there  in  brown,  rough  stone,  long  ago. 
The  rough,  brown  stone  has  now  disappeared  under  modern  yel¬ 
low  turrets,  and  highly-wrought  facade,  and  palatial  roof,  and 
enormous  clock-front ;  but  still,  it  is  the  palace  of' the  people, 
— the  seat  of  the  urban  government,— the  heart  of  the  city 


life. 


It  was  the  stream  of  this  city-life,  which  had  borne  down  in 
its  resistless  tide,  king  and  throne  ;  and  it  was  therefore  at  the 


7S 


The  Battle  Summer. 


Palace  of  this  City,  that  the  new  power  was  to  assume  form, 
and  action. 

Of  this  Palace  the  people  were  not  jealous  : — because  it  was 
among  them ;  because  it  had  been  the  seat  of  all  their  old 
organized  authorities ;  because  it  had  launched  forth  the 
edicts  that  had  destroyed  a  nobility  and  a  priesthood. 


H. 

The  Palace  Garrison. 

BUT  how  was  the  new  coming  Government  to  find  affairs 
at  the  Hotel  de  Ville  : — still  bristling  with  royal  mus¬ 
ketry,  and  holding  out  with  its  strong  walls,  and  Philippian 
Prefect  against  the  street-movements,  or  yielding  to  the  flow 
surging  around  it,  and  clamoring  a  welcome  ? 

On  the  morning  of  the  24th  February,  the  Secretary- 
General  for  Municipal  Affairs,  was  in  his  little  cabinet  at  the 
Hotel  de  Ville.  As  yet,  the  administration  was  unchanged. 
The  soldiers  of  the  Line,  and  Municipal  Guard  held  the 
Court.  Angry  crowds  had  for  two  days  swelled  around  those 
rich  palatial  walls,  but  as  yet,  force  was  seemingly  on  the 
King’s  side,  and  the  secretary  was  unsuspiciously  at  work  at 
his  desk. 

Presently  an  attendant  appears,  who  announces  the  ap¬ 
proach  of  a  legion  of  the  National  Guard,  and  firing  in  the 
direction  of  the  Pont  Neuf. 


The  Palace  Garrison.  79 

—  Pooh  ! — said  the  Secretary ;  yet  he  bit  the  end  of  his 
quill,  and  listened,  nervously  anxious.  He  went  to  consult 
with  the  Prefect,  hut  the  Prefect  was  not  to  be  found. 

He  sought  for  the  General  Sebastiani,  but  Sebastiani  was 
not  to  be  found. 

Meantime,  that  legion  of  Guard,  mingled  with  people- 
masses,  waving  banners,  and  crying — down  with  the  King — 
is  approaching. 

The  Secretary-General  has  laid  down  his  pen,  thrust  his 
papers  into  a  drawer,  and  is  hurrying  through  corridors,  after 
such  members  of  the  Municipal  Council  as  can  be  found.  But 
no  sooner  has  this  last  Municipal  Council  met,  than  a  salvo 
of  bravos,  and  a  crack  of  musketry  is  heard  from  below. 

—  What  is  it  ? — said  the  Secretary  ;  and  an  attendant 
replies — Alas,  Monsieur,  the  Guard  of  the  Palace  have  fra¬ 
ternized  with  the  people  ! 

The  Secretary  moves  to  a  window  that  commands  a  view 
of  the  Place.  Polytechnic  students,  and  workmen,  and  Na¬ 
tional  Guard,  with  here  and  there  a  crimsoned  soldier  of  the 
Line,  are  crowding  up  pell-mell  and  urging  their  way  into 
the  Palace  gates. 

Up  the  grand  stair-case  they  throng,  and  rush  along  the 
corridors,  and  break  into  the  Salle  dc  Trone.  A  noisy  Cap¬ 
tain  of  the  Guard  thrusts  aside  huissiers,  and  mounting  a 
chair,  proceeds  to  harangue  the  people  upon  their  triumph, 
and  the  capture  of  the  city  Palace. 

The  poor  Municipal  Guard  below,  overcome — pass  out 
with  bare  heads,  pale  as  death  ;  their  schakos  and  swords 


so 


The  Battle  Summer. 


are  trampled  to  the  ground,  amid  the  taunts  of  the  throng; 
they  hide  themselves,  as  they  best  can,  along  those  narrow 
streets  which  branch  off  from  the  Palace  Square. 

The  Prefect  appears  for  a  moment  in  the  court  below  ;  he 
is  too  late.  A  few  members  of  Municipal  Council,  taking 
courage,  and  assisted  by  Guardsmen,  force  their  way  into 
the  crowded  throne-room,  where  the  stalwart  Captain,  self- 
appointed  Governor  of  the  Hotel,  is  haranguing  his  army. 

The  Council  pushes  up  to  Presidential  chair  ;  but  the 
stout  Captain  is  not  disposed  to  yield  until  a  Captain  stouter 
than  he  frowns  down  his  arrogance,  and  the  Municipal  Board, 
in  clamor,  is  installed  again  in  its  place. 

There  is  a  shout  for  Gamier  Pages ;  he  comes,  it  is  said, 
with  a  message  from  the  Chamber.  Bnt  what  want  this 
Captain-harangued  people  of  message  from  any  Chamber  ? 

It  is  now  nearly  noon,  and  no  Provisional  Government,  or 
any  sort  of  Government  has  been  heard  of,  except  that 
named  by  the  conquering  Captain. 

Gamier  Pages  announces  the  abdication  of  the  King,  and 
the  Regency  of  the  Duchess.  Such  announcement  will  not 
do  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville  ; — unless  indeed  this  new  uproar 
which  now  is  coming  up  from  Palace  Square  shall  sanction 
it.  The  report  flies  along  corridor  and  crowded  stairways, 
that  the  Royal  troops  are  rallying  and  coming  to  the  attack. 

They  look  one  another  in  the  face  :  the  Regency  is  bad, 
but  to  be  shot  is  somehow — worse. 

After  all,  it  is  not  a  Royal  approach,  but  a  Royal  defeat 
that  has  created  the  tumult.  A  last  detachment  of  that 


The  Palace  Garrison. 


81 


odious  Municipal  Guard  are  driven  terribly  by  the  national 
soldiers,  and  by  armed  workmen  across  the  Square,  and  are 
chased  away,  wounded  and  bleeding,  into  such  hospitable 
doors  as  open  to  receive  them. 

Meantime,  amid  the  uproar  and  the  shouts,  a  new  company 
is  organizing  a  new  City  Government  in  another  salon  of  the 
vast  palace.  The  discomfited  Captain  has  erected  for 
himself  a  new  tribune,  and  is  girt  with  Polytechnic  students, 
and  bloused  workmen.  Is  the  stout  Captain  to  succeed,  or 
no  ? 

The  crowd  ceases  not  to  flow  in  and  up  :  in  the  Salle  de 
Trone ,  Pages’  voice  is  drowned  ;  his  long  hair  and  mild  face 
are  lost  sight  of  in  the  crowd  of  shining  casques,  and  tri- 
comered  Polytechnic  hats,  and  slouch  bonnets  of  the  people. 

In  the  Cabinet  of  the  Prefect,  the  astounded  Secretary- 
General  is  again  vainly  busy  with  his  pen  ;  he  sends  out  orders 
here  and  there  by  servitors  grown  refractory  and  uncertain. 
In  the  great  salle  of  St.  John,  still  another  company  are  vo¬ 
ciferous — are  applauding  speaker  after  speaker,  and  making 
edict  after  edict,  in  virtue  of  their  conquest. 

Strange  confusion  of  powers  !  By  which  shall  the  timid 
stand  ? 


4# 


T  h  e  Battle  S  l  m  m  f  r 


S3 


III. 

ANew  ]  ower  Comes. 


THE  crowd  divides  upon  the  Square,  and  closes  round 
the  procession  of  new  comers  from  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies — with  Lamartine  at  their  head. 

From  every  window  of  the  Hotel,  even  from  Throne-room 
and  Cabinet,  anxious  faces  are  looking  out,  and  eager  ears 
are  listening  to  such  bravos  as  float  up  to  palace  windows. 
On  through  the  gateway,  sentineled  now  only  by  the  musket¬ 
bearing  people,  the  deputation  pushes  its  way  up  the  stair¬ 
case,  and  into  the  Salle  de  Trbne.  Otf  go  hats,  and  military 
casques,  and  the  vaulted  ceiling  echoes  a  thousand  vivats. 
But  at  the  very  moment  almost,  a  new  Provisional  Govern¬ 
ment  has  arrived  from  the  office  of  Rcforvie  newspaper  ;  ci'ies 
of — vive  Flocon  and — vive  Albert ,  have  greeted  it  in  front 
and  on  stairway.  It  would  be  dangerous  to  repel  such 
claimants,  backed  by  such  sea  of  men  as  is  surging  on  the 
Palace  Square.  A  coalition  is  effected  in  the  very  corridors. 

The  names  are  newly  announced  by  some  stentorian 
speaker  in  the  crowd  ;  those  of  Marrast,  Louis  Blanc,  Flo- 
con,  and  Albert,  are  added  to  the  list  of  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies. 

And  where  are  we  now  ? 

It  is  verging  upon  five  o’clock.  The  great  City-Palace  is  a 


A  New  Power  Comes. 


83 


hive  of  commotion.  Every  avenue,  stair-way,  court,  is  full. 
Here  and  there  a  late-coming  member  of  Government  strug¬ 
gles  through,  amid  curses  and  bravos,  earnest  to  reach  that 
cabinet,  where  Lamartine,  and  Marie,  and  the  rest,  are 
writing  on  oaken  table,  the  decrees  which  are  to  save  the  city. 

The  poor,  disappointed  Captain,  who  in  the  morning  had 
captured  Hotel  de  Ville,  is  stirring  up  students,  and  work¬ 
people  to  rebellion.  A  Municipal  Council,  self-organized,  is 
sending  up  by  armed  messengers  its  propositions  to  the  Provi¬ 
sional  Power. 

Sometimes  a  litter  with  wounded  man  passes  through  the 
lower  corridor,  to  be  stretched  upon  the  floor  of  the  Salle  of 
St.  John. 

The  most  violent  line  the  stair-ways,  and  at  the  announce¬ 
ment  of  such  names  as  are  ungrateful — such  as  Lamoriciere, 
or  even  Lamartine,  and  Marie,  the  cry  is — Down  with  the  Roy¬ 
alists  ;  down  with  the  Aristocrats  ! — this  shall  be  a  People’s 
triumph  !  And  the  Babel-din  spreads,  and  rocks  from  voice 
to  voice,  filling  the  length  of  the  vast  Salic  de  Trone. 

The  Government,  which  has  been  driven  like  skulking  hare, 
from  room  to  room,  and  whose  edicts  have  been  flying  from 
windows  for  an  hour,  is  startled  by  the  growing  confusion. 
The  people  must  be  appeased,  or  all  is  lost. 

Sympathies  below — around  the  bleeding  litters,  are  growing 
fast  against  the  Government  in  closed  cabinet,  with  military 
messengers ;  and  they  are  quickening  in  favor  of  the  noisy, 
vociferous,  promising,  bayonetted  Government  below. 

The  issue  is  more  doubtful  than  ever. 


SI  The  Battle  Summer. 

Lamartine  goes  to  quell  the  tumult.  He  passes  along  the 
corridor,  his  high,  calm  forehead,  showing  plain  in  the  torch¬ 
light,  (for  it  was  now  night  in  the  Palace,)  over  the  military 
schakos,  and  hare  heads  of  the  throng.*  His  appearance  in¬ 
spires  respect,  and  they  only  whisper  as  he  passes.  But  so 
soon  as  he  is  gone,  the  murmur  begins,  muskets  are  loaded, 
and  angry  voices  rise  again. 

Lamartine  enters  the  Salle  de  Trone :  he  waits  long  for 
silence ;  armed  men  are  desperately  proclaiming  their  meas¬ 
ures  ;  strips  of  paper,  bearing  new  names,  are  thrown  to  the 
greedy  crowd ;  lamps  are  burning  ;  smoky  torches  are  waving ; 
bayonets  are  gleaming  over  the  heads  of  the  multitude. 

He  addresses  them  in  cool,  dispassioned  tones — never 
swerving,  never  failing — his  voice,,  all  the  while,  firm  and 
manly.  Twice,  muskets  are  pointed  at  him  ;  once  a  pistol  is 
held  to  his  ear.  But  his  courage  saves  him  ;  and  his  courage 
saves  the  Paris-world ! 

For  a  moment — only  a  moment,  there  was  hesitation,  and 
then  the  honest  face  of  the  speaker  turned  the  tide  of  feeling, 
and  the  hall  burst  forth  into  true  French  shout,  and  greeting : 
— Long  live  Lamartine  ! 

And  he  passes  back,  amid  huzzas,  to  the  Cabinet  of  the 
Government.  Muskets  that  were  pointed  at  him  a  little  while 
ago,  are  grounded.  Voices  that  were  clamorous  of  rebellion 
are  hushed. 

*  It  may  be  proper  to  state,  that  this  narrative  of  events  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville, 
wvs  gathered  from  the  account  of  an  eye-witness— to  whom  I  am  also  beholden 
for  other  information,  and  for  many  kind  attentions. 


Night. 


85 


Let  those  who  sneer  at  the  vanity  and  weakness  of  the 
Poet  consider  well,  if  any  hut  a  Man — an  Orator  in  the  first 
sense  of  that  word — a  Leader  in  its  truest  significance,  could 
have  thus  appeased  the  wrath  of  that  Paris  mob. 

What  men  call  practical  statesmanship,  and  what  the  world 
calls  reason,  and  what  politicians  reckon  the  wisdom  of 
formulas,  have  all  their  places :  but  Eloquence,  and  Soul, 
have  their  places  too. 

Here  at  least,  Lamartine  was  strong  ;  here,  he  was  great — 
another  Horatius  Coccles,  to  be  heralded  in  song,  and  story  ! 


IV. 


Night. 


IGHT  is  come.  Still  in  little  corner  cabinet  this  new- 


-L  1  made  Government  is  busy  with  their  decrees.  Peace 
has  partially  settled  upon  the  courts  of  the  Palace ;  and  the 
noisiest  along  the  corridors  have  grown  weary  with  shouting, 
and  struggles. 

A  big  fire  blazes  under  the  elegant  sculptured  chimney  of 
the  Hall  of  St.  John,  and  glistens  upon  the  schakos  of  tired 
guard',  and  the  bayonet  of  shop-boy,  whom  Revolution  has 
made  a  soldier.  Brancards,  on  which  the  wounded  are  still 
lying,  drowsing  under  the  reflection  of  the  blaze,  stretch  along 
the  wall.  Old  men,  wearied  with  the  day’s  tramp,  take  off- 
their  soldier-caps,  and  stretch  themselves  to  sleep  upon  the 


SG 


Tiie  Battle  Summer. 


oaken  floor.  Young  men  stand  at  tlie  chimney-corners  under 
the  shadow  of  the  tall  Cariatides  of  Goujon,  and  discuss,  in 
low,  earnest  manner,  the  events  of  the  day,  and  the  new- 
proclaimed  edicts  of  the  Provisional  Power. 

At  a  half  hour  past  midnight,  old  Dupont,  wearied  with 
his  eighty  years,  and  his  stormy  day’s  work,  leaves  the  cabi¬ 
net,  and  pushes  his  night-course  over  the  barricades,  to  his 
distant  home  in  the  Rue  de  Madame. 

A  little  water  in  a  workman’s  pitcher,  and  a  round  loaf  of 
military  bread,  is  all  the  refreshment  the  Government  have 
taken  since  the  morning.  Still,  they  labor  on,  with  their 
Chart  of  Government,  and  their  new  code  of  policy  growing 
into  stature  under  their  pen. 

The  guidance  of  Police,  seized  by  Sobrier  and  Caussidiere, 
had  been  confirmed  to  them  by  the  Dupont  Ministry. 

Etienne  Arago,  named  Director  of  Postal  arrangements,  by 
the  conclave  at  the  office  of  Reform,  had  already  entered 
upon  duty,  and  the  malle-postes  were  galloping  with  the  news 
to  the  farthest  borders  of  France. 

Proclamations  and  edicts  have  been  printed,  and  are  read 
by  torch-light  in  every  street  of  Paris. 

The  monarchy  is  proclaimed  at  an  end ;  the  citizens,  and 
army  are  congratulated  upon  their  triumph.  A  Ministry  is 
formed  : — Lamartine  is  Secretary  for  F oreign  Affairs ;  Dupont 
is  President  of  Council;  Cremieux,  Minister  of  Justice; 
Rollin  at  the  head  of  the  Interior  ;  Goudchaux,  Secretary  of 
Finance  ;  Subervic  at  the  head  of  War  ;  Cavaignac  is  named 
Governor  of  Algeria  and  Marrasi,  Mayor  of  Paris. 


The  Streets. 


S7 


The  Chamber  of  Deputies  is  dissolved  ;  the  Chamber  of 
Peers  is  abolished. 


Literature  is  not  forgotten,  even  in  Revolution  ;  an  officer 


is  appointed  to  the  Library ; — another  to  the  museum,  for 
Art  too  is  remembered. 

At  near  three  of  the  morning,  the  Government  sought,  for 
the  first  time,  a  little  rest ;  stretched  on  hard  benches,  or  on 
soldier’s  mattress,  they  sleep  off  their  fatigues.  And  Citizen 
Guard,  by  thousands,  keep  watch  and  ward  by  the  bivouac 
fires,  that  blaze  upon  the  square. 


V. 


The  Streets. 


EANTIME  what  is  street-life  doing  ?  Whither  tends 


now  the  tide,  that  in  the  morning,  and  yester-night 
rolled  up  rocky  barricades,  and  glittered  with  sparkling  arms  ? 
It  was  quiet,  but  it  was  full.  Before  sunset,  placards  headed 
— no  more  of  Bourbons  ; — no  more  of  Kings — and  announcing 
Government  Provisional  were  posted  in  all  Paris  streets. 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  the  workman  who  had  forsaken 
shop,  or  home,  turned  again  to  his  pursuit,  announcing  joy¬ 
fully,  to  every  passer-by,  the  result.  The  omnibuses  clattered 
again  through  such  streets  as  were  free  from  barricades  ;  and 
the  cabmen,  with  cockades  on  their  shining  hats,  drove  gaily 
along  the  Boulevard. 


SS  The  Battle  Summer. 

The  cafes  were  filled  with  noisy  companies  discussing  the 
events  of  the  day.  In  the  better  quarters,  eager-faced 
strangers  were  astir  ;  looking  curiously  on  wreck  of  barricade, 
and  reading  with  intense  anxiety  the  successive  proclamations. 
The  shops  were  still,  most  of  them  closed  ;  but  a  stream  of 
people  of  all  classes,  in  which  blouse  of  workman,  and  coat  of 
National  Guard  predominated,  flowed  down  upon  either  side 
of  the  great  thoroughfare  of  the  city,  and  dashed  its  eddies 
about  the  corners  of  Rue  Richelieu  and  Vivienne,  like  a  river 
swollen  with  rains. 

At  the  Madaleine,  the  post  of  the  soldiers  was  burning  ; — 
the  light  was  reflected  magnificently,  from  the  colonnade  of 
the  temple,  and  the  square  was  clouded  with  waves  of  sooty 
smoke. 

The  Prison  of  the  Abbaye,  across  the  Seine,  had  been 
taken,  had  been  opened,  and  political  offenders  are  rejoicing 
with  friends.  The  Carmagnole,  and  Marseillaise  were  chant¬ 
ed  here  and  there  around  the  corner  wine  shops,  and  by  bands 
of  students  walking  in  file. 

Enthusiasm  had  caught  even  cold  reformists,  and  black- 
coated  Bourgeois  were  chatting  with  brick-layers  and  masons. 

As  night  drew  on,  Cafes  were  illuminated,  and  here  and 
there  some  tall  house  of  Bourgeois.  Still,  the  citizen  sol¬ 
diery  stood  guard.  The  barricades  remained  untouched  ;  and 
the  sentinels  upon  them,  stood  dark  and  high,  against  the  light 
of  the  red  bivouac  fires  blazing  below. 

It  was  a  strange,  a  sad,  a  glorious  night. 

Mothers  trembled  ;  old  men,  mindful  of  the  old  republic, 


The  Streets. 


80 


shuddered  at  those  words  heading  the  new  placards — Rcpublique 
Frangaisc.  Royalists  grew  timid,  and  gathered  up  their 
valuables  for  flight.  Bankers  passed  the  night  in  carrying 
away  papers  and  jewels ;  strangers  talked  of  early  departure. 

There  was  something  even  in  such  names  as  those  of 
Dumoulin,  and  Marrast,  and  Carnot,  to  make  that  first  Re¬ 
publican  night-sleep,  a  night-mare. 

There  were  not  a  few  who  passed  that  night  beside  stiffened 
corpses,  or  at  bed  of  wounded  ;  and  there  were  some,  who 
drunken  by  enthusiasm,  or  by  excesses  in  Tuilleries’  cellar, 
danced  fearful  orgies  around  dead  brethren. 

Others,  hopeful  of  humanity,  glowed  with  a  generous  zeal 
at  thought  of  the  monarchy  that  had  been  put  down,  and  of 
the  popular  Government  that  had  been  erected ;  and  confid¬ 
ing  in  the  good  intent  of  the  victors,  slept  quietly,  and  sound¬ 
ly,  leaning  on  their  fire-locks. 

Ambitious  heads  dreamed  strange  dreams  : — such  as  Blanqui, 
Barbes,  or  Lagrange,  so  long  the  hunted  victims  of  a  dynasty, 
that  feared  them  unless  chained,  were  awake  and  free, — were 
plotting  and  rejoicing. 

They  were  men  of  fierce  enthusiasm,  who  had  perilled  life, 
property,  liberty,  everything  that  most  men  hold  dear,  for 
their  idolized  scheme  of  a  Republic ;  and  now  that  it  had 
overtaken  them  half  unaware,  they  huzzaed  like  fanatics, 
while  they  trembled  with  apprehension. 

Fierce  old  women  in  upper  garrets,  inflamed  by  poverty, 
and  the  blood  of  offspring  shed  on  that  day’s  barricades,  still 


90 


T  he  B  a  t t  ee  Summer. 


kept  their  red  light  burning,  when  midnight  was  gone  ;  and 
still  turned  the  molten  lead  into  murderous  ball. 

In  old  families  of  St.  Germain,  which  had  begun  to  creep 
from  the  shadows  of  the  July  Revolution,  into  the  sunlighLof 
courtly  splendor,  there  was  wonder  and  fear. 

There  was  no  Tallyrand  for  terrified  nobility  to  beg,  and  to 
bolster  itself  upon ;  and  no  General  Lafayette,  or  popular 
Lafitte  for  Bourgeois  to  seek  in  shelter.  It  was  not  1830,  but 
1848. 


YI. 


A  Wreck  of  the  Old  Time. 

THERE  were  many  afoot,  and  astir  who  had  seen,  and 
been  partakers  in  one  Revolution,  in  two, — perhaps 
in  three :  but  of  those  great  names  which  belonged  by 
history  and  association  to  half  a  dozen  Revolutions, — 
which  retained  old  taint  of  old  Royalism,  and  to  which  still 
attached  admiration  for  talent,  and  respect  for  lineage, — only 
one  now  belonged  to  a  living  man.  And  he,  that  night  in  a 
tall  house  of  the  narrow,  noisy  Rue  de  Bac,  was  lying  on  the 
edge  of  the  grave. 

The  mind  that  had  illumined  the  literary  horizon  for 
nearly  half  a  century,  had  sunk  almost  into  idiocy.  Old 
women  took  care  of  the  man,  who  had  been  the  care 
of  kings.  He  who  had  reveled  in  the  splendor  of  every 


A  Wreck  of  the  Old  Time. 


91 


Court  in  Europe,  and  wandered  with  young  fee!  over 
American  wild-lands, — who  had  united  reputation  of  Poet, 
Philosopher,  and  Statesman,  who  had  belonged  to  the 
Diplomacy  of  the  Age, — whose  name  was  attached  to 
Great  Treaties,  and  whose  opinion  had  weighed  with  Impe¬ 
rial  Cabinets — now  that  the  Chrysalis  of  lingering  Feudality 
was  breaking  fibres,  and  a  new  political  being  stretching  wings 
— was  but  a  slobbering  fool,  quarreling  with  his  nurse  for 
gruel. 

Not  one  of  all  the  actors  of  the  day,  whether  winners  or 
losers,  thought  it  worth  his  while  to  consult  now  the  great 
Chateaubriand. 

The  poor  Hero  of  Letters,  and  of  monarchy,  the  failing 
support  of  a  failing  cause,  the  last  of  royal  poets,  the  linger¬ 
ing  dreamer  of  royal  dreams,  was  sinking  amid  the  luxuries  of 
old-time  extravagance  ;  was  listening  with  the  irritable^  petu¬ 
lance  of  dotage  to  the  guns  that  ushered  in  a  Republic — was 
lapping  his  last  cordials  from  golden  spoons,  and  slowly  dying 
on  Regal  Damask. 

Time  makes  wreck  of  reputations,  as  it  does  of  thrones. 
The  waves  stop  not,;  Genius  tosses  idly  at  its  own  old  fasten¬ 
ings,  while  the  world  floats  on. 

That  poor  echo  of  a  man  will  not  reach  now  evefi  to 
street-window.  Voices  that  were  babbling  boys’  voices,  when 
Chateaubriand  was  great,  are  now  strong  as  armies. 

- Lie  there  flickering  in  your  broidered  dressing  gown, 

great,  feeble  old  man — going  out!  You  have  seen  your 
time.  The  next  wave  will  fling  you  into  the  dead  page  of 


92 


The  Battle  Summer. 


Biography,  and  some  young  student  of  St.  Cyr,  upon  the  live 
page  of  Life. 


VII. 


Escape  of  Royalty. 


rTVHE  King  was  again  at  Dreux.  He  had  come  with  the 


JL  Queen  from  Trianon  with  the  fastest  post-horses  of  Ver¬ 
sailles.  He  told  the  magistrate  when  he  came  to  pay  his  re¬ 
spects,  that  he  would  stop  four  days  at  Dreux ; — he  did  not 
know  anything  then  of  Hotel  de  Ville  history  ; — he  scarce 
stopped  at  Dreux  as  many  hours  as  he  had  counted  days. 

It  may  he  that  he  caught  time  to  shed  a  few  tears  more  at 
the  Royal  Mausoleum,  over  Sister  Adelaide  ;  hut  they  were 
stolen  tears,  not  state  tears.  He  had  come  down  from  Kingship, 
and  was  now  only  a  feeble,  asthmatic  old  gentleman,  at  his  sis¬ 
ter’s  grave.  But  dignity  is  no  measurer  of  grief,  and  sorrow 
cuts  as  keenly  through  gold-cloth,  as  plain  home-stuff. 

Next  we  find  him,  in  a  close  post-coach,  with  the  Queen, 
and  her  maid,  and  a  single  valet — with  a  black  cap,  and  in 
spectacles, — sitting  far  back  in  the  carriage,  and  with  no  money 
for  postillions,  except  a  bag  of  borrowed  Napoleons. 

From  time  to  time  the  gens  d?armes  stop  the  coach  for 
passports,  and  the  sub-prefect,  who  is  seated  upon  the  coach¬ 
box,  whispers  the  gendarmerie  away. 

The  flowers  that  young  girls  brought  to  throw  into  the  fly- 


Escape  of  Royalty. 


93 


ing  carriage  of  Charles  Tenth,  were  wanting,  to  lighten  the 
weight  of  the  new  Iving-grief. 

Near  the  old  town  of  Dreux,  they  stopped  at  the  country 
house  of  a  friend,  and  the  farmer — for  the  master  was  away 
— was  at  once  host  and  servitor  to  the  desolate  King. 

Farther  on,  in  that  cold,  wet,  February  weather,  they  took 
shelter  in  an  isolated  house  near  the  Cape  of  Honfleur. 

There  for  a  week  and  more,  the  King  and  his  Queen  — 
feeble  old  Frenchman  and  his  feeble  wife — stayed,  hiding 
themselves  in  deserted  chambers — wrapping  themselves  in 
cloaks  and  shawls,  lest  the  smoke  of  coal  fire  even,  should 
betray  them. 

A  few  days  later,  and  an  old  man,  calling  himself  Lebrun, 
(Theodore)  applied  for  river  passage  from  near  Rouen  to 
Havre.  He  wore  black  travelling  cap,  and  spectacles,  and 
his  feeble  wife  hung  upon  his  arm.  Singularly  enough,  the 
same  old  gentleman  had  only  a  little  time  before  chartered 
the  same  steamer  to  add  to  his  diversions,  when  King  of 
France.  The  sailors  knew  him,  but  they  said  nothing. 

And  he  landed  in  the  night  on  Quay  of  Havre,  and  the 
next  morning  was  tossing  on  Channel  waters,  bound  for  the 
shores  of  England. 

Very  little  sympathy  followed  him.  He  has  been  too  sel¬ 
fish  to  create  love  ;  he  has  been  too  avaricious  to  make  such 
friends  as  would  mourn  truthfully  at  his  fall. 

There  were  traders  who  regretted  a  patron  ;  there  were 
servants  perhaps  who  bewailed  a  kind  master  ;  there  were 
courtiers  who  had  lost  their  support.  But  these  things  make 


94 


The  Battle  Summer. 


no  true  grief :  and  such  men  make  no  true  mourners.  There 
is  no  heart  in  it :  it  is  all  vanity. 

And  when  the  news  came  hack  of  his  safe  arrival  at  a  place 
of  refuge,  there  was  no  street  howl  of  disappointment ;  there 
was  not  a  sigh  of  regret :  there  was  not  a  huzza  of  pleasure  ; 
there  was  not  a  shout  the  less,  nor  a  smile  the  more.  People 
talked  of  it  in  Cafes,  as  they  would  talk  of  a  lucky  escape 
from  accident — as  having  little  hearing  upon  the  weightier 
matters  of  the  day. — Assurcnienv,  en  a  echappe  de  bel , — and 
the  talker  wipes  his  coffee  from  his  moustache.  With  such 
and  so  little  coffee-house  regret,  is  the  old  King  followed  into 
his  British  exile. 

The  Bourgeois  monarch  is  gone  forever ;  hut  will  there  not 
rise  up  in  his  stead  a  Bourgeois  monarchy  ? 


Yin. 


The  Early  Decrees. 


IHOUSANDS  woke  that  morning  of  the  25th  of  Fehru- 


JL  ary  as  in  a  dream.  The  events  of  the  three  days  had 
been  quick,  and  sudden,  and  uncertain  ;  and  the  events  into 
which  they  had  ripened  on  the  evening  of  the  24th  were  as 
vague  and  unsubstantial  to  the  minds  of  many  as  a  pleasant 


story. 


But  on  the  morrow,  the  pro'clamations,  the  self-made  sol¬ 
diers  standing  guard  at  Palace  gates, — the  printed  words 


The  Ear  r.  v  Decrees. 


95 


Republiqu, t  Frangaise ,  upon  door  of  church,  and  of  Caserne, 
dissipated  illusion,  and  brought  the  truth  home.  France  was 
indeed  under  a  Republic.  The  most  popular  among  the  Pro¬ 
visional  Government,  Louis  Blanc,  Lamartine,  Ledru  Rollin, 
had  announced  it.  The  proclamations  bore  Republican  types. 
And  the  authors  of  those  proclamations  were  still  at  then- 
work  in  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  disturbed  from  hour  to  hour  by 
the  hoarse  outcry  coming  through  winding  corridor,  and 
vaulted  passage, — Long  live  the  Republic ! 

An  address  of  thanks  is  proclaimed  to  the  army  ;  another 
to  the  National  Guard.  An  edict  declares,  that  all  moneys 
accruing  from  the  late  Civil  list  shall  be  paid  over  to  the 
workmen  :  another,  that  the  Palace  of  the  King  shall  hence¬ 
forth  be  a  Hospital  for  disabled  laborers  :  another,  that  all 
functionaries  of  the  late  Government  are  absolved  from  their 
oaths  :  another,  (and  it  is  the  fruitful  source  of  coming  trou¬ 
ble,  and  fated  to  terrible  revocation,)  that  labor  shall  be 
guarantied  to  all  workmen. 

All  these  arc  announced,  first  from  the  windows  of  the 
Throne-room,  at  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  forthwith  are  scattered 
on  white  placards  to  every  corner  of  Paris.  The  National 
Guard, — and  every  man  is  now  of  the  corps, — read  these  with 
various  emotions,  as.they  stand  sentry  in  idle  groups  at  Palace 
gates,  or  loiter  at  the  doors  of  their  deserted  shops. 

Tumult  does  not  cease  upon  the  Square  of  Hotel  de  Ville. 
You  can  scarcely  crowd  your  way  through  the  company  of 
unfed  Parisians,  clamorous  for  more  quick  help  than  these 
edicts  promise. 


96 


The  Battle  Summer. 


They  are  weary  with  barricade'  fight ;  they  are  anxious  to 
enjoy  their  triumph.  But  bakers’  shop-doors  are  closed 
against  them  even  as  before ;  and  the  sweet-smelling  pastry 
shelves  are  under  wondrous  order,  and  protected  by  those 
ugly  corpses  placarded — Voleurs ! 

—  We  have  beat  down  the  tyranny — say  they — where 
now  is  our  food  and  our  bed  :  are  they  nearer  than  yester¬ 
day  ? 

These  words,  loud  spoken,  reach  to  the  second  story  win¬ 
dows  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  The  quick  eyes  of  Marrast,  and 
Louis  Blanc,  and  the  sympathetic  regard  of  Lamartine  is 
upon  them.  Already  offerings  have  been  proclaimed  for  the 
poor.  But  these  gamin,  strong-limbed,  and  eager,  will  never 
humble  themselves  to  vagabond  claimants  of  alms  at  the 
doors  of  Mairies  ;  never.  What  then  shall  be  done  ? 

Lamartine  leans  thoughtfully,  his  head  upon  his  hand,  on 
that  round  table,  by  which  sit  the  Members  of  the  Provisional 
Government.  He  writes  hastily  upon  a  bit  of  brown  wrap¬ 
ping  paper ;  he  passes  it  to  the  others.  They  all  sign  it,  in 
turn.  And  now,  the  edict  reads  : — 

Twenty -four  battalions  of  Garde  Nationale  Mobile  shall  be 
at  the  instant  enrolled  in  the  city  of  Paris.  These  Garde 
Mobile  shall  be  clothed  at  public  cost,  and  be  paid  each,  thirty 
sous  a  day.  Now,  twenty  thousand  of  the  noisiest  are  quieted, 
and  change  their  ragged  blouses  for  blue  coats,  green  epau¬ 
lettes,  and  leathern  hats  ;  and  by  and  by — so  strangely  works 
Destiny — will  save  the  city  from  just  such  marauders,  as  they 
were  yesterday. 


T-he  Early  Decrees. 


97 


But  with  this  green-epaulette  enrollment,  danger  does  not 
cease. 

All  night  long,  and  all  the  morning,  shop-girls,  grisettes  of 
easy  faith,  and  easier  virtue,  have  hung  their  caps  with  stream¬ 
ing  red.  The  flag  lifted  over  the  old  tower  of  the  Jacquerie, 
and  over  the  Palace  of  Justice,  is  red.  The  mad  host  in  and 
around  the  Hotel  de'  Ville  bear  aloft  the  same,  and  urge  its 
adoption  upon  the  Provisional  Government  above. 

Again  it  is  Lamartine  who  unriddles  this  passion  cry,  and 
by  a  bit  of  poesy,  which  then  and  there  was  eloquence,  turns 
the  enthusiasm  for  the  Red  into  a  vivat  for  the  Tri-color. 

The  triumph  suggests  another. — It  was  the  sixth  day — says 
Lamartine* — that  the  idea  came  to  me — and  the  same  as  if 
Heaven-sent,  came  the  same  moment  to  the  minds  of  all  my 
colleagues — to  break  the  force  of  reaction,  by  abolishing  the 
scaffold,  and  putting  an  end  to  punishment  by  death. 

And  again  from  out  those  windows,  the  new  decree  was 
launched, — was  received  with  plaudits,  in  the  humane  frenzy 
of  the  moment,  and  carried  comfort,  and  comparative  quiet 
to  thousands  throughout  the  city.  Thenceforth  men  knew, 
that  this  was  to  be  no  Revolution  of  Ninety-Three. 

A  Commission  is  named  to  sit,  and  occupy  itself  with  tho 
interests  of  workmen.  Louis  Blanc,  and  Albert  are  at 
head. 

Those  fearful  public  work-shops  are  organized,  and  idle 
hands  are  there  busied  upon  idlest  of  labor.  It  was  not  with- 

*  Troii  Mois  au  Pouvoir 


5 


98 


The  Battle  Summer. 


out  serious  opposition  on  the  part  of  many  Members  of  the 
Government,  that  this  measure  was  canned  into  execution ;  hut 
the  clamors  of  the  needy  population,  now  by  the  flight  of 
strangers,  growing  trebly  numerous,  were  too  strong  to  he 
withstood. 

Affairs  Municipal — the  soldiery,  the  courts,  the  street  regu¬ 
lations  all  undergo  change,  and  yet  all  passes  uninterruptedly. 
If  sick,  they  will  take  you  to  the  Hospital  as  before  ;  if  you 
steal,  they  will  take  you  to  the  old  prison ;  if  a  plaintiff,  you 
will  have  the  same  court  dues  ;  and  if  you  die  on  the  street, 
they  will  give  you  over  to  dexterous  hands  for  dissection. 

It  is  voted  to  resume  public  works ;  and  as  early  as  the 
27th  the  hammers  are  busy  again  upon  the  new  Hotel  of  For¬ 
eign  Minister,  and  the  new  Palace  of  Stamps.  The  Courts, 
on  the  25th,  have  resumed  their  sittings  and  differ  no  way  from 
Royal  courts,  except  that  the  culprit  who  yesterday  went  to 
his  cell,  in  the  name  of  the  King,  now  goes  in  the  name  of 
the  People. 

The  schools  and  colleges  have  resumed  their  sittings ;  the 
Professors  under  Republican  sanction  have  resumed  their 
tasks,  and  rub  their  hands,  and  talk  as  deftly  as  before.  Even 
the  gates  of  the  Institute  are  not  closed ;  and  on  the  Monday 
following  the  Revolution,  the  members  in  their  green-trimmed 
coats,  rode  along  the  quay,  and  drove  under  the  archway  into 
the  court,  and  talked  of  gases,  and  bases,  as  if  no  King  had 
fallen,  and  no  Republic  had  been  made. 

Blanqui,  Sobrier,  Barbes,  are  not  yet  satisfied.  They  have 
given  allegiance,  but  they  are  restle:-s  spirits.  The  Govern- 


Country  Feeling. 


99 


mcnt  must  beware  of  them.  Caussidiere  too,  is  indefatigable  in 
his  place  as  Prefect,  and  organizing  a  police,  that  in  case  of 
need  shall  serve  him  as  Body-guard.  He  himself  is  adopting 
costume — vest  and  hat — of  Ninety-Three.  Louis  Blanc  with 
soft  words,  and  soft  voice,  is  winning  sympathies  of  strong- 
armed  .workmen — of  workmen  who  sneer  at  Lamartine. 

- We  leave  the  Government  still  sitting  in  their  Hotel 

de  Ville,  not  idle,  but  working  to  allay  the  ferment — interrupt¬ 
ed  by  vociferous  outcry,  by  Deputies  coming  to  swear  adhe¬ 
sion,  by  startling  rumors  of  monarchic  insurrection,  by  fear 
and  uncertainty,  and  a  dim  apprehension  of  coming  trouble. 


IX. 


Country  Feeling. 


IOR  days,  public  feeling  has  been  street-feeling — too  strong 


JL  to  subdue,  too  contagious  to  resist.  Country  has  caught 
it  from  the  city,  and  the  mail  carriers  of  Etienne  Arago,  going 
forth  on  every  high  way  bearing  little  tri-colored  banners 
stuck  in  their  coach  tops,  and  the  cockade  upon  their  hat¬ 
bands,  have  propagated  far  as  Brest,  and  Toulon,  the  wild 
enthusiasm  of  the  city. 

Lingerers  by  provincial  post-inns,  ever  feady  for  a  shout, 
or  an  item  from  the  metropolis,  bear  away  the  tidings  over 
hill,  and  through  vineyards ;  and  the  carmagnole,  to  music  of 
rude  rural  horn,  is  piped  along  the  hedges,  and  under  the  long 


100 


The  Battle  Summer. 


lines  of  poplars.  Country  girls  are  ready  for  a  dance  to  a  new 
tune  ;  country  braggarts  are  ready  for  a  new  charge  against 
the  Prefect,  and  a  loud  huzza  to  his  discomfiture.  Town-hoys 
wearied  with  monotone  of  French  country  life,  are  glad  to 
have  a  shot  at  the  Royal  arms,  and  to  make  a  bon-fire  of 
Royal  insignia. 

Men  of  estates,  and  of  discretion,  slow  to  be  innoculated 
by  the  new  fever,  look  anxiously  for  the  Debats,  and  the  Con- 
stitutionnel.  But  they  dare  not  reason  provocatively  with  the 
glad  vine-dressers,  inflamed  by  their  own  shouts,  and  by  a 
pleasure,  which  whatever  it  may  be,  or  whencesoever  it  may 
come,  they  neither  know  how,  nor  care  to  analyze. 

Therefore,  it  is — Vive  la  Republique  ! 

It  is  so  with  soldiery,  because  Paris  soldiery  has  so  declared  ; 
it  is  so  with  National  Guard,  because  City  Guard  has  so  de¬ 
clared  ;  it  is  so  with  workmen,  because  Albert  is  of  the  Gov¬ 
ernment.  It  is  so,  soon,  with  sober  men  of  property,  who 
thought  to  die  good  king’s-men,  because  their  standards  of  po¬ 
litical  faith,  the  old  Dynastic  papers  of  the  Capital,  have  after 
three  days  of  doubt  and  trepidation,  turned  upon  their  heel, 
and  wheeled  into  Republican  ranks. 

There  are  quarters  indeed  where  goes  Genoude’s  Gazette 
de  France, — where  priesthood  is  stronger  in  force,  and  faith, 
than  at  the  Capital,  which  still  demur,  and  there  is  talk  in 
corners  of  the  strange  pranks  the  Prince  city  is  witnessing. 
There  is — most  of  all — the  Bordelais,  always  jealous  of  Paris 
influence,  which  does  not  shout  so  loudly,  among  the  vines  of 
Medoc,  for  the  Republic,  as  the  men  of  Macon. 


Country  Feeling. 


101 


The  stiff,  half-English  wine--merchants  too,  of  that  region, 
— cool,  calculating,  commercial-minded  men,  doubt,  and  won¬ 
der,  and  reckon  issues, — not  yielding  themselves  by  impulse, 
to  such  conclusions,  as  have  swept,  like  a  tornado,  over  Ly¬ 
ons,  and  Lille,  and  Rouen. 

But  from  all  this,  the  weight  of  significance  is  shorn  by 
Etienne  Arago’s  incoming  couriers,  proclaiming  the  zeal  of 
Republicanism,  from  Bayonne  to  Calais. 

After  all,  of  what  avail  would  have  been  opposition  ?  The 
Queen  city  of  the  land,  strong  in  position,  population,  wealth, 

•  — above  all,  in  an  unheard-of  Metropolitan  influence  has  de¬ 
clared  it ;  and  who  shall  gainsay  the  declaration  ?  With  Paris 
rests,  and  has  long  rested  the  means,  and  the  habitude  of 
concentrating  French  action.  Without  it, — for  heart,  for 
moving  spring,  for  regulator — French  politics  were  a  bundle  of 
shapeless  Canton  projects,  without  unity,  harmony,  or  strength. 

•  It  is  the  solar  centre  of  the  Departmental  System. 

Parisian  influence  is  so  pervading,  so  predominant  in  Pro¬ 
vince,  as  to  fix  the  type  of  feeling,  not  only  on  political  mat¬ 
ters,  but  on  every  question,  whether  social,  moral,  artistic, 
scientific,  or  literary. 

To  a  stranger  this  influence  is  almost  inconceivable.  But  let 

I 

him  for  a  moment,  call  to  mind  the  History  of  that  proud 
Capital — its  august  Courts — its  high  National  tribunals, — its 
regal  magnificence,  and  its  riches,  exhausting  the  wealth  of 
entire  Provinces  for  their  supply,  and  re-elaborating  it  into  a 
thousand  luxurious  and  attractive  forms  ;  let  him  set  the  map 
before  him,  and  trace  that  grand  net-work  of  artificial  rivers, 


102 


T  li  e  13  a  t  t  l  e  Summer. 


and  of  roads,  converging — like  the  rays  of  a  spider’s  web— 
toward  that  corrupt  and  siren  centre,  lying  loW'upon  the  banks 
of  the  Seine, — and  he  will  be  able  to  form  a  more  definite 
idea  of  the  amazing  Metropolitan  influence  of  the  Paris-World. 


X. 


City  Feeling. 

HE  first  effervescence  of  city  feeling,  the  entrainement  < 


J-  of  Republican  passion,  after  not  many  days,  dies  away, 
not  so  much  in  open  street,  where  busy  song-singers  keep  up 
their  rude  glee,  boisterous,  and  unwearied,  as  in  Cabinet  and 
salon.  The  unceasing  ga-ira,  and  carmagnole  pall  on  the  ear ; 
passion  is  past,  and  reflection  is  busy  reckoning  prospective 
issues. 

There  are  not  a  few  Republicans,  disappointed  of  position, 
who  doubt  if  the  men  be  equal  to  the  task  ;  or  if  the  begin¬ 
ning  has  not  been  too  feeble  for  the  great  ends  to  be  accom¬ 
plished.  Clubs  are  noisy  with  this  feeling :  fired,  doubtless, 
with  a  hankering  after  the  wealth,  and  the  endowments,  if  not 
the  blood  of  those  who  have  been  for  eighteen  years  fattening 
on  monarchic  spoils. 

The  stiff  old  priesthood,  made  bold  by  the  humane  decrees 
of  Government,  sneer,  and  launch  their  lampoons,  spiced 
with  cloister  learning,  at  the  bloated  Republic  of  the  Ca¬ 
naille.  Many  a  salon  of  St.  Germain,  when  the  first  fright 


City  Feeling. 


103 


is  fairly  over,  is  noisy  with  merriment  at  the  tall  hat  of 
Prefect  Caussidiere,  or  the  tri-colored  sash  of  poet  Lamartine, 
or  the  stern,  state-smile  of  -  editor  Marrast. 

The  English  from  the  first,  fearful  and  uncertain,  are 
crowding  to  their  Ambassador’s  palace,  eager  for  passports, 
and  full  of  expressions  of  contempt  for  the  New  Powers  ; 
and  full  of  certainty  that‘our  Lord  John  Russell’will  turn  his 
✓  back  upon  such  sudden,  upstart  authority. 

Americans,  such  as  chance  in  the  Capital,  and  as  are  not 
tied  by  interest  or  affection  to  members  of  the  defunct  sys¬ 
tem,  are  clamorous  in  applause  of  the  new  Republic,  and  are 
among  the  first  to  lay  their  national  gratulations  at  the  feet  of 
the  rulers  in  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 

Italians  are  rejoicing  ;  at  least  the  great  body  of  refugees  ; 
and  their  Cafe  de  France,  behind  the  Palais  Royal,  resounds 
till  midnight,  with  a  wild  Tuscan  Marseillaise. 

The  Carnival  not  yet  wholly  gone  by,  finds  its  latest  spark 
of  gaiety  flashing  fun  and  satire  upon  the  fallen  dynasty  ; 
and  steeple  crowns  that  make  their  appearance  at  masquer¬ 
ades,  are  flattened  unceremoniously  by  red-capped  dancers  of 
the  ball.  In  the  end,  the  Marseillaise  blends  with  the 
waltzes  ;  and  defiance,  gay-tempered,  crowns  the  merriment. 

Vests  a  la  Robespierre,  are  not  only  in  masquerade,  but  in 
street ;  and  a  new  Demoiselle  Theroigne,  with  sash,  and  pis¬ 
tols,  and  sabre,  and  love-locks,  is  afoot  upon  the  Boulevard. 

The  theatres  are  rejoicing  in  their  license  ;  old  strictures 
are  removed,  and  what  managers  will,  is  put  upon  the  scene. 
Some  little  time  passes  to  arrange  the  new  plays,  since  all 


104 


The  Battle  Summer. 


must  go  to  the  honor  of  the  Republic.  The  interlude  is 
made  up  by  patriotic  songs,  chanted  by  singers  in  costume  of 
National  Guard. 

Even  Madame  Rachel  leaves  her  sphei’e  of  pure  classic 
acting,  to  declaim  the  Marseillaise.  Clothed  in  white  robe, 
not  unlike  her  costume  in  Roman  story  of  Virginia — with  a 
broad  tablet  of  gold  surmounting  her  fair  Jew  brow,  half 
kneeling,  with  the  banner  of  the  country  in  her  hand, — now 
turning  those  dark  liquid  eyes  intently  upward,  and  then 
flashing  a  glance  of  stirring  appeal  from  box  to  pit, — she  kin¬ 
dles  her  audience  into  such  furor  of  resistance,  that  they 
clench  their  fists  unwittingly,  and  close  tight  their  lips,  and 
look  angrily  at  their  neighbors — seeking  some  tyrant  to  crush. 

The  populace  is  now  in  the  ascendant.  The  new  powers 
have  decreed  public,  gratuitous  representation  ;  and  blouses 
take  place  in  first  gallery,  one  or  two  days  in  the  week,  lis¬ 
tening  intently,  (an  intentness  that  would  surprise  a  Saxon 
workman,)  to  the  best  acting  of  the  classic  touches  in  the  Cid, 
and  to  the  delicate  humor  of  Tartuffe,  or  the  Misanthrope. 

At  the  Porte  St.  Martin,  tlie  old  theatre  of  strong  Ca 
naille,  Lemaitre,  the  favorite  of  the  suburbs,  and  the  most 
powerful  exhibitor  of  melo-drama,  has  brought  again  to  light 
the  extinguished  play  of  Robert  Macaire,  and  the  withering 
sallies  of  the  Chiffonier.  Night  after  night,  the  benches 
throng,  to  see  the  triumph  of  the  witty  highwayman  over 
jack-booted  police,  or  to  follow  the  poor  rag-gatherer  to  his 
wretched  home,  and  to  groan  a  sympathy  with  his  anathemas 
upon  the  rich. 


What  Reformists  Think. 


105 


Men,  whose  names  it  had  been  a  sin  to  mention,  are  now 
heralded  anew.  The  glories  of  the  Empire  are  wakened  on 


the  stage.  Marshal  Ney  goes  upon  the  boards  with  new 


favor,  and  the  spot  of  his  execution  is  decorated  with  flowers 
and  garlands  ;  and  a  self-appointed  guard  stands  sentry  over 
a  banner  bearing  this  simple  and  touching  line  : — Honneur 
au  Brave  des  Braves ! 


XI. 


What  Reformists  Think. 

HE  Reformists — with  Thiers  and  Barrot  at  their  head, — 


have,  after  long  debate,  determined  to  yield  to  a  tide 
which  they  cannot  resist,  and  to  declare  for  the  Provisional 
authorities  and  the  Republic. 

But  how  far  is  the  declaration  real  and  sincere  ? 

A  stranger  who  passed  from  street  to  street,  in  sight  always 
of  red,  and  tri-color  cockades,  who  saw  citizens  mounting 
guard,  who  heard  the  Marseillaise  chanted  at  every  theatre 
from  Rue  Lepelletier,  to  the  Beaumarchais,  might  have  said 
that  there  was  not  another  feeling  but  Republicanism  known ; 
and  that,  single, — united, — progressive. 

But  the  salons,  the  private  clubs,  the  side-talks,  would  teach 
him  that  even  from  the  first,  other  opinions,  strong  and  defi¬ 
nite,  were  afloat.  Out  of  doors  they  dared  not  appear  ;  even 
known  journals  of  Royalism  curbed  their  license  into  strange 


5* 


106 


1'he  Battle  Summer. 


compass,  and  talked  uneasily  of  monarchical  rule.  Other  ac¬ 
tion  would  have  been  unpe^p  liar,  dangerous,  useless. 

Most  of  Reformers,  like  Barrot,  Thiers,  Dufaure,  counted 
the  step  too  long,  too  sudden,  too  poorly  sustained.  They 
had  reckoned  solely  upon  a  revision  of  the  electoral  system, 
upon  reductions  of  civil  list,  with  the  continuance  of  Royalty, 
and  royal  functions. 

They  feared  the  Republic,  not  so  much  from  apprehension 
of  a  reaction  toward  Despotism,  as  from  distrust  of  its  power 
to  sustain  worthily  itself. 

To  them,  reared  in  the  old-fashioned  school  of  politics — 
the  practical  school — a  Republic  with  such  patrons  and  di¬ 
rectors  as  hot-headed  Rollin,  speculative,  poetizing,  general¬ 
izing  Lamartine,  and  strong-headed,  mathematic  Arago,  ap¬ 
peared  simply,  absurd,  and  impracticable.  Any  government 
with  such  direction,  would  have  seemed  to  them  the  same.  It 
was  not  the  form,  so  much  as  the  formers ;  it  was  not  the 
thing,  so  much  as  the  means  of  reaching  it. 

—  The  Republic — said  they,  moreover — is  not  a  considered 
matter ; — not  as  yet  subjected  to  calculation,  to  analysis,  to 
proper  direction.  Political  action  has  not  ripened  for  it,  or 
toward  it.  It  has  nothing  settled,  or  practical  associated  with 
its  direction.  It  is  the  result  of  an  impulse,  and  not  of  re¬ 
flection  ;  it  is  the  monstrous  growth  of  a  passion,  and  not  the 
normal  result  of  regular  political  inquiry. 

Its  creatures  are  those  of  impulse  ;  having  begun  with  it, 
they  must  yield  to  it,  and  where  it  will  carry  us,  and  the  coun¬ 
try,  Heaven  only  knows. 


What  Reformists  Think. 


107 


It  was  not  a  little  annoying  indeed,  to  old  politicians, 
and  as  the  times  had  been,  liberal  politicians,  to  find 
themselves — their  names,  and  their  influence — utterly  sup¬ 
planted  by  a  corps  of  men,  whom  they  had  been  accus¬ 
tomed  to  look  upon  as  the  vainest  of  vain  theorists  ; — and  still 
worse  was  it,  to  find  that  these  very  new-men,  not  only  did 
not  seek  for  their  counsel  or  their  aid,  but  treated  them  with 
the  utmost  indifference  ; — receiving  their  testimonials  of  ad¬ 
herence  as  a  debt  due  to  the  State,  and  not  reckoning  enough 
upon  any  concealed  opposition,  to  give  them  the  small  honor 
of  a  police  surveillance. 

They  yielded  only  because  they  could  not  successfully  op¬ 
pose  ;  and  in  the  hope,  that  through  election,  they  might  be 
compounded  into  the  new  political  body,  and  so,  warp  its  ac¬ 
tion,  from  unhealthy  impulsive  excitation,  into  the  train-band 
order  of  legitimate  political  cabal. 

With  monachists,  such  as  weazen-faced  old  Marquis,  hid¬ 
ing  his  titles  because  poor,  or  Dowager  with  equipage,  or 
sleek -faced,  black-frocked,  soft-gliding  Jesuit,  the  argument 
was  nothing  but  a  sneer,  or  a  laugh. 

—  As  if — said  they — that  vulgar  Hotel  do  Ville,  with 
hard-handed  Albert,  and  puny  Louis  Blanc,  and  tall-liatted 
Caussidiere,  can  govern  la  belle  France ! 

With  Bourgeois  shop-keepers,  bankers,  National  Guard, 
who  had  thrived  under  the  commercial  tenderness  of  the  late 
King,  the  Republic  was  still  doubtful,  and  doubt  was  quickening. 

The  eclat  of  the  early  ovation  was  passing,  leaving  their 
shops  empty,  their  books  neglected.  The  trader  would  be 


10S 


The  Battle  Summer. 


glad  to  buy  back  the  stranger,  thus  early,  though  at  cost  of 
his  freeman’s  vote.  He  is  staggered  too,  by  the  public 
workshops;  for  at  the  very  time,  when  the  falling  off  of  his 
trade  would  naturally  lead  him  to  seek  some  counterpoise  in 
reduced  rates  of  labor,  he  finds,  on  the  contrary,  that  a  mu¬ 
nificent  government  by  its  gratuitous  patronage,  has  put  this 
resource  out  of  his  reach. 

He  likes  not  those  immense  working  palaces,  where  the  idle 
can  live  luxuriously.  It  galls  him  to  listen  to  those  repeated 
decrees  of  aid  for  workingmen. 

How  unreasonable — he  says — that  the  laborer  should  not  be 
content  with  his  old  crust,  now  that  we  have  given  him  a  vote  ! 

What  a  strange,  unreasonable  creature  man  is  to  be  sure  ! 

Henceforward, — as  bread  is  good,  and  money  is  sweet, — ■ 
the  war  will  be,  not  between  Republic  and  Monarchy  ;  but 
between  blue  workman’s  shirt,  and  black  trader’s  coat. 


Position 


o  F 


XII. 

Republicans 


AMONG  those  who  rejoiced  at  the  issue  of  the  25th  of 
February,  there  was  no  common  lien,  but  the  conta¬ 
gious  enthusiasm  of  the  moment,  and  the  word — Republic. 

But  enthusiasm  survives  a  hundred  contre-temps  of  the 
hour ; — an  enthusiasm  lit  up  Vy  success,  and  fed  with  the 
hope  of  grand  achievement. 


Position  of  Republicans. 


109 


With  some,  political  sentiment  was  a  mere  enthusiastic  at¬ 
tachment  to  a  long-cherished  idealism, — a  vague  fondness,  with¬ 
out  force,  because  uncertain.  With  others,  it  was  a  wild 
liberty-loving  impulse,  which  associated  the  adopted  form  with 
all  that  is  liberal ;  and  such  pushed  on,  regardless  of  minor 
issues.  With  others,  it  was  a  flame,  a  mania,  a  day-dream, 
to  end,  alas,  in  bitterest  deception. 

With  others  still,  and  these  unfortunately  fewest  of  all,  the 
Republic  was  a  considered,  practicable,  judicious,  tangible 
project,  requiring  all  prudence,  and  discretion,  and  forbear¬ 
ance, — uncertain  indeed  of  success,  but  promising  with  all  its 
hazards,  so  much,  and  so  well,  that  their  hearts  and  minds 
were  engrossed  in  its  development. 

Even  in  the  Provisional  Corps,  working  together  night  and 
day  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  there  was  little  homogeneity  of  feel¬ 
ing.  It  was  fortunate,  perhaps,  that  in  the  compromise  be¬ 
tween  the  men  of  the  Chamber,  of  the  Reforme,  and  of  the 
Prefecture,  each  section  of  Republicans  saw,  or  believed  it 
saw,  a  representation  of  its  peculiar  opinions. 

In  Dupont,  Marie  and  Cremieux,  were  represented  that 
serious,  reflecting  portion  grown  out  of  Bourgeois  ranks ; — - 
hateful  of  the  King  because  he  had  broken  trust,  and  hopeful 
of  the  Republic  because  formed  in  good  faith,  and  approved 
by  popular  acclaim. 

Pages,  Marrast,  and  Bastide  appeased  the  whetted  appe¬ 
tites  of  such  as  had  labored  at  the  columns  of  the  National, 
and  had  for  years  endured  persecution,  for  that  cause  which 
now  owed  no  small  measure  of  its  success,  to  their  advocacy. 


110  The  Battle  Sumjmer. 

Ledru  Rollin  held  the  sympathies,  aud  restrained  the  oppo¬ 
sition  of  those  still  wanner  in  sentiment ; — of  those  who  in¬ 
sisted  upon  the  Republic,  and  its  liberties,  as  the  sole  guaranty- 
of  individual  honor  ; — of  those  to  whom  its  declaration  was  more 
the  gratification  of  a  cherished  fierte ,  than  a  token  of  progress ; 
— to  whom,  in  short,  the  license  of  self-government  was  rather 
an  end,  than  a  means,  and  in  whose  philosophy,  entire  liberty 
was  entirest  enjoyment. 

Louis  Blanc,  and  Albert  were  before  the  eyes,  and  in  the 
hearts  of  that'cxcitable  work-shop  population,  who  had  lit  up 
their  evenings  with  such  reading,  as  the  History  of  Ten  Years, 
and  the  crude  writings  of  Albert.  They  restrained  their  in¬ 
dignation  at  sight  of  stern  Marie,  and  venerable  Dupont,  only 
in  hope  of  what  was  coming  through  that  great  Labor  Com¬ 
mission  of  the  Luxembourg. 

The  more  intense  feeling  of  the  time  found  its  guage,  and 
governor  in  the  presence  of  Sobrier,  and  Caussidiere  at  the 
Prefecture  of  Police.  Gamin ,  and  coachmen,  and  street- 
orators  counted  on  these  names  as  security  for  an  access  of 
license,  and  continuance  of  good  cheer. 

Lamartine  stood  by  himself,  a  kind  of  ideal  representation 
of  humanity  at  large.  The  streets  knew  that  he  had  a  big 
and  kind  heart ;  the  wildest  Republicans  knew  that  he  had 
intense  hate  of  tyranny ;  the  Bourgeois  knew  that  he  had 
large  property  at  stake  ;  the  Socialists  knew  him  to  be  a  Poet 
of  tender  sympathies,  and  most  lively  imagination  ;  the  mode¬ 
rates  knew  him  to  be  of  ancient  and  honorable  family,  and 
most  ready,  and  captivating  speech. 


Revolutionary  Phases. 


11] 


At  the  first,  all  worked  together  in  harmony,  uniting  forces 
against  the  common  enemy — the  sympathizers  with  the  de¬ 
funct  power.  But  so  soon  as  the  fear  of  such  was  removed, 
the  advocates  of  each  particular  phase  of  Republicanism, 
looked  to  the  action  of  the  powers  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  for 
some  tokens  of  its  advance. 

Strapge  contrariety  of  expectation  !  And  yet  all  of  it  easily 
narrowed  down  to  these  two  grand  divisions — Bourgeois  in¬ 
terest,  and  Working  interest. 

Which  shall  win  the  day,  and  which  shall  ultimately  suc¬ 
ceed — black  trader’s  coat,  or  blue  workman’s  shirt  ? 


XIII. 


Revolutionary  Phases. 


N  Sunday  succeeding  the  Tuesday  of  the  Dynastic  fall, 


the  column  of  Bastille  is  clothed  in  tri-color  ;  the  Squaro 
is  thronged  with  thousands  of  National  Guard,  and  from  the 
pedestal,  the  venerable  Dupont,  flanked  by  Blanc,  and  Marie 
addresses  the  assembled  officers.  It  is  a  Paris  sermon,' ‘■of-  a 
Paris  Sunday. 

The  whole  Boulevard  meantime  is  thron'ging  with  shouting, 
enthusiastic  men.  The  shops  are  closed,  not  from  any  new- 
wakened  Sabbath  reverence,  but  because  it  is  the  the  first 
great  Fete-day  of  the  Republic — a  Paris  Easter. 

At  Notre-Dame,  the  bald-headed  Dominican  Lacordaire, 


112  >  The  Battle  Summer. 

under  tlie  emblems  of  funeral  ceremony,  preaches  in  his  burn¬ 
ing  words, — faith  in  the  Republic  ;  and  scatters  plentiful 
encomiums  on  the  heads  of  that  wonderful  people,  who  are 
crowding  up  to  listen,  and  who,  he  tells  them — by  God’s  help 
have  won  a  great  victory. — God’s  anointed,  surely,  who  have 
won  so  great  a  triumph  ; — who  have  smote  the  city,  and  driven 
away  the  Philistines  that  were  in  it,  and  given  it  for  a  present 
to  their  sons  and  to  their  daughters  ! 

At  other  churches,  mourners  in  black  are  at  side-chapels, 
few  and  lonely.  The  crowd,  joining  voices  to  the  anthem, 
step  sadly,  and  slowly,  and  reverently  by  the  kneeling 
mourners,  and  carry  to  the  altar  of  their  worship  the  enthusi¬ 
asm  of  a  political  triumph. 

At  corners,  old  women  sell  cockades  of  red,  and  tri-color  ; 
and  the  liquor-selling  strollers  are  decked  with  little  banners 
streaming  from  cap,  and  tin  temple. 

From  day  to  day,  deputations  take  up  their  march  along  the 
Quays,  to  give  in  their  adhesion  to  the  Provisional  Power. 

Americans  assembling  at  the  Hotel  des  Princes  in  Rue 
Richelieu,  thread  the  long  narrow  streets  conducting  to  the 
Hotel  de  Ville — the  boy-famous  Peter  Parley  among  the 
foremost — and  give  gratulation  and  national  approval.  Hun¬ 
garians,  Italians,  and  Poles  follow  from  day  to  day. 

But  the  English  and  Russians  are  moving  away,  and  not 
toward  this  heart  of  the  new  Paris  life.  The  office  for  pass¬ 
ports  at  the  Prefecture  is  besieged.  Families  inhabiting  the 
Rue  Rivoli,  and  Place  Vendome  have  left  their  quarters  in 
affright. 


Rev  o-l  utionary  Phases. 


113 


Those  songs  of  Marseillaise,  chanted  at  dead  of  night,  by 
men  bearing  muskets,  sadly  affect  weak  nerves. 

Every  day  to  the  bureaux  at  the  mint,  go  piles  of  gold  and 
silver  vessels  to  be  exchanged  for  specie.  Plate,  jewels, 
everything  that  can  be  turned  into  money,  is  sold. 

The  reports  from  the  provinces  give  confidence  to  the  Ex¬ 
ecutive.  The  country  is  paralyzed  by  Paris  action,  and  tes¬ 
timonials  of  adhesion  come  in  from  town,  village,  and  city. 

Armed  volunteers,  throng  the  rail-way  offices  to  go  to  the 
attack  of  those  Vandals  who  are  destroying  station  houses, 
and  burning  bridges.  But  the  wild  hordes  of  un-Christian- 
ized  country-workers — ever  associating  property  with  tyranny 
— have  been  before  them,  and  destroyed  five  millions  of  pro- 
perty. 

Banquets  do  not  die  with  February,  but  wet,  blowy  March 
is  redolent  with  the  garlands  that  stretch  from  column  to 
column,  over  the  heads  of  Republican  talkers  and  eaters. 
The  hall  of  the  Jeu  de  Paume — famous  in  other  times — is  on 
the  12th  March  noisy  with  a  Republican  Banquet, — forerun¬ 
ner  of  other  and  more  dangerous  Banquets. 

The  sad  solemnity  of  burying  the  dead  of  February  has  at 
one  time  broken  in  upon  Revolutionary  glee. — From  earliest 
morning,  funeral  convoys  are  moving — from  away  toward  the 
Pantheon, — from  the  North  and  Montmarte,  from  the  Bas¬ 
tille,  and  Mont  Rouge — and  unite  in  a  long,  sombre  array  of 
soldiers  with  trailing  arms,  and  muffled  drums,. — coaches  with 
black  cloths,  and  waving  plumes, — wounded  ones  with  their 
arms  in  sling,  and  gigantic  funeral  car,  on  which  the  em- 


114 


Tiie  Battle  Summer. 


blems  of  Death  and  the  Republic  have  been  knit  by  artist 
hand. 

The  martyrs  are  entombed  beneath  the  column  of  July, 
and  their  names  are  added  to  the  list  upon  the  magnificent 
brazen  scroll. 

The  statue  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  only  four  short  years 
ago,  hung  over  with  garlands  by  the-people,  is  now  torn  from 
its  place  in  the  Court  of  the  Louvre,  and  the  marble  plinth 
converted  into  a  cenotaph  for  the  dead  ; — yet  bearing  in  black- 
painted  letters,  (if  the  storms  have  not  washed  them  out) — 

A  UX  MO  RTS  POUR  LA  REPUBLIQUE. 

Tall  poplars  of  liberty  are  planted  with  religious  awe  in 
all  open  places,  and  their  scant,  feeble  limbs  are  hung  with 
tri-color  ribands. 

Clubs  are  open,  at  which  are  discussed  the  elections,  and 
the  edicts,  and  which  begin  early  to  sap  the  influence  of  the 
men  of  Hotel  de  Ville.  Each  phase  of  Revolutionary  feel¬ 
ing  has  its  tribune  and  committee  ;  noisiest  among  them  are 
those  under  special  sanction  of  Caussidiere,  and  sustained  by 
Blanqui  and  Lagrange. 

Laborers  out  of  work,  throng  eagerly  to  hear  such  doc¬ 
trines  of  spoil,  and  annihilation  of  wealth,  as  come  glowing 
from  the  lips  of  Raspail  and  Proudhon.  The  Bourgeois 
tremble  in  passing,  and  leaning  in  their  empty  doorways  at 
evening,  listening  to  loud  ga-ira ,  and  clamorous  black-belted, 
musketted  blouse,  they  ask  themselves,  if  even  the  old  regime, 
with  its  hardships,  was  not  better  than  this  dread  of  spolia¬ 
tion  ! 

* 


Revolutionary  Phases. 


115 


The  Guard  at  the  Palace-gate  is  an  old  porter  of  the 
Bourgeois ;  he  bears  his  musket  carelessly  and  boldly  ;  he 
smokes  his  pipe  within  his  sentry-lodge  ;  he  affects  dirtiness ; 
and  he  shakes  the  offering-box  for  the  wounded  in  the  faces 
of  passing  Bourgeois,  as  if  Bourgeois  wealth  were  at  com¬ 
mand. 

*  They  shook  hands  on  th'e  barricades  ;  but  that  is  passed. 

- Spring  is  fairly  come  ;  the  chestnuts  are  budding  in 

Palace  Garden.  Groups  of  earnest  talkers  hang  here  and 
there ;  not  now,  as  at  the  first,  black  coat,  and  blouse  min¬ 
gled  together ;  but  blouse  and  black  coat  has  each  its  own 
group. 

The  old  National  Guard  discontented  with  some  police 
regulations  of  the  new  powers,  make  a  demonstration — an 
idle  demonstration  of  some  twenty  thousand  muskets,  ending 
in  nothing  but  the  conviction,  that  things  arc  not  now  as  they 
were. 

On  the  next  day,  the  workmen  have  demonstrations ;  no 
muskets,  but  a  procession  of  two  hundred  thousand  stout¬ 
armed  laborers,  bearing  banners  proclaiming — right  to  labor. 
They  throng  the  whole  line  of  Boulevard,  and  fill  up  as  they 
reach  it,  the  Square  of  Hotel  de  Ville. 

The  Government  appears,  and  appears  with  promise  ;  and 
the  rustling,  chanting  multitude  defile  away  before  Bourgeois 
shops,  witli  banners  and  songs  that  make  Bourgeois  tremble. 

Whose  is  the  victory; — does  it  belong  to  workman,  or  to 
trader  ?  Who  has  prior  right  to  such  virtues,  and  good  things 
as  may  Lave  sprung  out  of  this  last  Paris  Revolution  ? 


116 


The  Battle  Summer. 


—  We — say  the  Bourgeois — have  thrown  down  the  obnox¬ 


ious  King,  and  have  yielded  (in  fear  or  in  generosity)  to  the 


street  cry  for  a  Republic. 

—  We — say  the  workmen — have  spent  our  blood  once  in 
July,  1830,  for  the  Bourgeois  ;  but  this  time,  in  February,  1S48, 
for  ourselves. 

The  Government  Provisional  stands  unsteadily,  between 
the  shocks.  Which  way  shall  it  turn  ? 

Blanqui,  and  Blanqui-men  are  noisy  in  condemnation  ;  Bar- 
rot,  and  Reform-men  fold  their  arms  in  despair. 


XIY. 


Western  Sympathy. 


LREADY  American  sympathy  had  made  itself  heard 


from  across  the  water.  Our  country  had  reached  a 
long  arm  over  ocean,  to  give  a  cordial  shaking  of  hands  to 
France.  Nothing  was  more  natural ;  nor  was  it  the  first 
time  America  had  shown  such  sympathy  to  a  French  Repub¬ 


lic. 


At  the  date  of  the  Revolution  of  the  last  century,  the 
reception  of  the  news  in  the  Federated  States  was  most  en¬ 
thusiastic.  The  Marseillaise  was  sung ;  red  caps  were  worn  ; 
public  meeetings  held,  and  even  from  the  pulpit,  congratula¬ 
tions  were  sent  over  the  water,  to  the  nation,  which  as  it 
seemed,  was  so  nobly  redeeming  itself  from  Priest-craft  and 


Western  Sympathy. 


117 


King-ship.  The  fetes  of  France  were  renewed  in  Philadel¬ 
phia  ;  the  tri-color  cockade  was  worn  by  citizen,  and  school¬ 
boy  ;  oxen  were  roasted  on  open  commons ;  and  banners  un¬ 
furled,  displaying  such  inscriptions  as — Rights  of  Man,  and 
Abolition  of  Feudality.  Fraternization  was  then,  as  now, 
the  order. 

Nor  did  the  sympathy  end,  until  the  absurd  conduct*  of 
Genet,  the  first  French  Envoy,  and  the  bloody  terrors  of  the 
Revolution  created  a  re-action. 

American  sympathy  of  1848  was  met  with  cold,  and  par¬ 
tial  acknowledgment  on  the  part  of  the  French  Government. 
Reasons  of  policy  dictated  this  course. 

The  great  aim  of  Provisional  Rulers  was  to  avoid  collision 
with  European  Powers.  They  wished  above  all  to"  conciliate 
England — not  so  much  the  English  Cabinet — as  British  opi¬ 
nion.  In  this  they  comparatively  succeeded.  The  times  of 
’89,  and  the  times  of  ’48  were  in  sentiment  a  century  apart. 
Brougham  alone,  of  eminent  British  statesmen,  ventured  to 
stand  in  the  gap,  for  the  defence  of  failing  Feudality;  and  his 
argument  is  as  much  inferior  in  eloquence,  in  flow,  in  wisdom, 
and  in  temper,  to  the  Reflections  of  Mr.  Burke,  as  the  cause 
he  attempted  to  sustain,  was  inferior  to  those  wide  interests 
of  Humanity,  which  found  shelter  under  the  imposing  bulwark, 
thrown  up  by  the  genius  of  the  Irish  statesman. 

Our  Minister  with  his  congressional  resolutions,  was  received 

*  Diplomacy  of  the  United  States,  Boston,  1826.  It  is  not  a  little  singular  that 
the  first  two  envoys,  from  the  two  great  French  Republics — Genet  and  Poussin^ 
should  be  peremptorily  dismissed  by  the  only  Government,  which  on  both  occa¬ 
sions  cordially  sympathized  with  French  action. 


118 


Ti-ie  Battle  Summer. 


at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  as  a  debtor,  who  comes  to  liquidate  an 
old  standing  account.  The  vanity  of  not  a  few  aspiring 
Americans,  who  hoped  to  take  position,  by  force  of  pure  na¬ 
tionality,  was  wofully  at  fault. 

The  case  was  simply  this : — the  weak,  new-made  govern¬ 
ment  of  Paris,  not  yet  balanced  between  opposing  forces  at 
home,  nor  yet  secure  against  difficulties  from  without,  could 
afford  no  sympathies  ; — least  of  all  to  a  power  too  far  away  to 
act  immediately  in  its  diplomatic  negotiations,  and  so  kindred 
in  character  and  purposes,  as  to  make  its  interference  or  open 
sympathy,  obnoxious  to  those  feudal  courts,  which  it  was 
their  object  to  conciliate. 

Moreover,  this  new  Republic  had  assumed  to  itself  a  far 
higher  character  than  belonged  to  our  own.  It  was  initiative — 
as  its  makers  hoped — to  a  higher  progress,  and  a  more  thor¬ 
ough  reform,  than  was  to  be  found  in  any  Western  wilderness  ; 
— as  much  higher,  as  French  vanity  is  disposed  to  rate  French 
political  philosophy  above  all  other.  Deeper  questions  were 
submitted  to  their  philosophic  analysis.  Humanity  was  re¬ 
duced  to  codification ;  and  the  teachers  affected  to  disregard 
that  humble  effort  of  our  own,  which  was  successful,  only  for 
the  poor  reason,  that  it  was  practical. 

A  merely  judicious,  and  safe  government,  having  for  its 
basis  popular  representation,  was  by  no  means  the  end  of 
their  wishes.  New  systems  of  labor,  State  finance,  of  crim¬ 
inal  policy,  and  a  reduction  of  commonest  affairs  of  life 
to  a  nice,  philosophic,  pseudo-christian  organization,  was  th? 
dream,  as  much  of  Lamartine,  as  of  Louis  Blanc,  or  Raspail 


Western  Sympathy. 


119 


Such  views  gained  no  strength,  by  assimilation  to,  or  frater¬ 
nization  with  the  healthy,  masculine,  common-sense  notions, 
by  which  our  system  was  fairly  and  stoutly  at  work. 

Western-country  people,  looking  only  to  the  fall  of  King- 
ship,  and  the  adopted  symbols  of  a  Republic,  were  loud  and 
earnest  in  greeting.  French  Statesmen  received  that  greet¬ 
ing — -such  feeble  echoes  as  reached  them — -as  an  actor  receives 
applause  for  his  cleverness  in  a  new  part.  They  reckoned  it 
a  rude  incense  of  praise,  coming  from  an  open-hearted  people, 
to  brilliant  action,  and  in  favor  of  a  philosophy, — great,  be¬ 
cause  its  expounders  were  great. 

We  offered  congratulations  ;  they  counted  it  applause.  We 
offered  hands  in  greeting ;  they  counted  it  an  expression  of 
admiration.  And  if  we  grew  indifferent — as  w6  did — they 
credited  it  to  our  amazement. 

- -  How  happy  that  vanity,  which  secs  in  its  own  short¬ 
comings,  only  new  sources  of  self-gratulation  ! 

Blessed  arc  the  men,  and  blessed  the  nations,  that  can  re-' 
gale  themselves  on  their  own  misfortunes  ;  and  shout — Bravo 
— at  their  own  fall  ! 


*20 


Tiie  Battle  S  u  m  m  e  r  . 


XV. 


The  Revolution  in  Books 


/ 


THE  stalls  along  the  quay — our  favorite  saunter — and  in 
the  angles  of  the  Palais  Royal,  are  now  over-run  with 
pamphlets,  livraisons ,  journals,  quartos,  caricatures,  each  hav¬ 
ing  its  connexion,  more  or  less  decided,  with  the  New  Order. 
Republics  of  every  grade,  and  shade,  are  under  discussion  by 
ten  thousand  swarming  writers. 

In  obscure  corners,  you  may  meet  with  translation  of 
American  Constitution,  and  with  copy  of  Helvetic  Confeder¬ 
acy  ; — beside  all  the  Constitutions  that  have  been  made  by 
this  brave,  Constitution-making  community — France. 

Discussion  assumes  all  shades  and  colors, — affectations  of 
styles  and  colors.  Here,  in  short,  brisk,  blue-covered  small 
hook,  you  see  vamped-up,  the  Pantagruel  drollery,  or  the 
quaintness  of  Montaigne.  Its  neighbor,  in  green,  is  sharp  as 
the  Spirit  of  Laws,  or  oily  as  Rousseau. 

Pictures  persecute  the  fallen  King  ;  and  begin  slowly,  (for 
French  humor  knows  no  self-denial)  to  play  off  Solon  (La¬ 
martine)  with  his  harp,  or  the  Minister  of  the  Marine  (Arago) 
in  robe  of  Astrologer.  Historians  of  the  February  matter 
multiply  by  hundreds. 

The  Retrospective  Review  buys  or  steals  a  lost  pacquet  of 


The  Revolution  in  Books. 


121 


Royalty,  and  entertains  the  spectacled  readers  of  the  Cafe  de 
la  Regence,  with  Royal  letters. 

Reybeaud*  just  pledged  as  author,  with  witty  pursuit  of 
Social  System,  now  trims  his  pen  to  set  Paturot  in  search  of 
Republic. 

Hugo  of  Notre-Dame,  the  fallen  peer,  is  writing  from  his 
rooms  on  the  old  Place  Royale,  Republican  letters  ;  Cormenin, 
of  the  ‘  Timon’  portraits, — shrewd,  vivacious,  dogmatic,  with 
keen  eye,  and  long  full  head,  is  contriving  Constitutional 
schemes.  De  Tocqueville  of  the  Democratic  Amcricaine ,  is 
turning  his  singularly  neat  mind  to  the  elaboration  of  a  Demo¬ 
cratic  Frangaise. 

Chevalier,  his  fellow  voyageur, — once  a  blue-robed,  red- 
vested,  shorn-pated  disciple  of  Eufa'ntin,’)'  appearing  with  him 
a  culprit  in  court, — is  discussing  (the  only  strong  pen  en¬ 
gaged  in  such  work)  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States. 

Dumas  has  become  publicist  proper  :  his  name  in  this  time 
attaches  as  Editor  to  a  weekly  Journal,  giving  history  of  po¬ 
litical  events  ;  while  his  Chevalier  de  la  Maison  Rouge ,  which 
has  contributed  not  a  little  to  existing  feeling,  is  still  sought 
after,  and  betliumbcd.  Sue  too  conies  in  for  a  share  of  tri¬ 
umph  ;  and  is  lionized  and  petted  by  all  such  Socialists  as 
think  they  see,  (not  without  reason)  a  thread  of  their  philoso¬ 
phy  running  through  his  mclo-dramatic  histories. 

*  “ Jerome  Paturot  ala  recherche  d'une  position  sociale Nothing  in  the 
literary  way  that  the  Revolutionary  epoch  has  furnished  in  Paris  is  better  than 
this  work,  and  its  sequel, — “  Recherche  de  la  Meillcure  des  Republiques,”  by 
Louis  Reybeaud. 
t  Dix  Ans.  Louis  Blanc 
6 


122  The  Battle  Summer. 

Beranger,  more  than  all  others,  is  the  literary  favorite  of 
tlm  hour ;  the  Poet  of  Freedom  and  of  Republicanism. 
Poetry  and  song  are  the  medium  of  closest  communication 
with  that  enthusiasm  which  belongs  to  fresh  political  exist¬ 
ence.  Faith,  earnest  but  ill-defined,  finds  best  expression  in 
the  strength  of  song;  and  verse  gives  fitting  body  to  the 
craziest  of  hopes.  The  old  man  is  garlanded.  His  name — 
as  if  the  quiet,  gray-clad  songster  could  fight  his  way  in  noisy 
company  of  political  talkers — is  first  upon  the  list  of  Paris 
candidates  for  the  Assembly. 

Lamartine,  whose  Gironde  is  yet  echoing  in  the  popular  mind, 
not  discordant  with  the  zeal  of  the  hour,  is  turned  improvisa- 
tore  ; — not  now  improvising  Meditations ,  or  bon-mots  for  the 
mouth  of  fair  Madame  Roland,  but  such  well-tuned  har¬ 
angues,  as  bewitch  scholars  of  St.  Cyr,  as  perplex  Irish 
Committees,  and  flatter  the  Deaf  and  Dumb.* 

Another  Litterateur,  and  in  the  emergencies  of  the  time, 
not  unimportant,  we  must  not  forget. 

*  See  his  address  to  the  Deaf  and  Dumb.  Ttois  Mois  au  Pouvoir. 


An  Amazon  of  Revolution.  123 


XYI. 


An  Amazon  of  Revolution. 
ADAME  Dudevant  had  been,  and  was  still,  a  splendid 


-LvJL  woman.  Forty  and  odd  years  had  not  taken  the  red 
from  her  cheeks,  or  the  fulness  from  her  form. 

Her  military  husband  had  long  since  been  disabused  of  his 
military  and  conjugal  authority.  Her  tutelage,  under  the 
mild-eyed  Lamennais — a  man  whom  we  shall  meet  in  the 
Chamber — had  ended.  This  humane  old  quarrellcr  with 
church  and  priest, — with  society  and  virtue,  had  quarrelled 
with  Geo.  Sand.  Her  books,  bad  as  they  might  have  been, 
— wild  in  theory,  or  strange  in  execution,  yet  bore  marks  of 
deep,  earnest,  philosophic  thought.  More  than  this, — and  it 
is  what  has  made  Geo.  Sand  a  popular  name,  spite  of  all  her 
vices, — they  were  quickened  everywhere,  and  all  of  them,  by 
a  strong  sympathy  with  the  poor  and  the  oppressed,  and  by 
an  intense  love  of  humanity. 

There  was  not  a  gamin  of  the  street,  who  so  welcomed 
Marseillaise  singing,  and  Republic-cries,  as  Madame  Dude¬ 
vant.  She  was  not,  it  is  true,  a  Theroigne  ;  nor  was  she  any 
more  a  Roland  ;  but  something  between  the  two, — having  all 
the  spirit  of  the  first,  and  all  the  mental  acumen  of  the  last. 
She  lacked  the  courage  of  Theroigne  ; — the  dignity  and  vir¬ 
tue  of  the  Roland. 


124 


The  B  a  ttle  S  u  m m e  k  . 


But  she  was  known,  and  admired  ;  and  her  pen  was  quick 
and  vigorous. 

—  There  was  a  frequent  visitor  in  those  times  at  her  luxu¬ 
rious  rooms  in  the  Rue  Conde  ; — a  man  younger  than  herself, 
hut  possessed  of  all  her  energy,  and  much  of  her  ability.  He 
was  a  man,  whose  appearance  at  any  time  would  have  excited 
a  gaze  upon  the  Champs  Elysees,  but  the  more  so,  now  that 
he  was  known  as  a  favorite  of  the  Dudevant,  and  that  rumor 
had  put  a  slanderous  edge  upon  the  story  of  the  friendship. 

The  Paris  world  was  not  content  that  such  man  as  Ledru 
Rollin,  the  young  and  rising  advocate,  the  late  sturdy  debater 
in  the  Chamber,  should  be  drawn  to  the  rooms  in  the  Rue 
de  Conde  for  mere  Republican  interlocution,  but  must  give 
to  the  intercourse  their  dainty  name  of — liason. 

But  scandal  died  when  it  was  found,  that  the  Bulletins  of 
the  Republic, — written  to  indoctrinate  the  provinces  in  Re¬ 
publican  views,  and  which  were  distributed  under  Government 
patronage  by  thousands, — owed  not  a  little  of  their  spice  and 
extravagance  to  the  same  pen,  which  painted  the  misty  Spiri- 
dion,  and  the  voluptuous  Pulcherie. 

The  public  grew  frightened  at  their  force,  and  at  their  bear¬ 
ing.  The  Government  disowned  them. 

Madame  Sand  flew  to  Tours. 

The  storm  fell,  as  we  shall  see,  upon  the  head  of  the  Min¬ 
ister,  Ledru  Rollin. 


Newspapers. 


125 


XVII. 


Newspapers. 


EPUBLICANISM  had  taken  off  stamp-tax  and  cau- 


JLuj  tion  money.  In  less  than  two  months  a  hundred  and 
fifty  new  journals  had  seen  the  light ;  some  for  a  day  only, 
some  for  a  week,  some  for  a  month,  and  some  still  lead  a  pre¬ 
carious  and  uncertain  existence,  under  the  stringent  hand  of 
Louis  Napoleon. 

The  old  Dynastic  papers,  rich,  well  established,  with  strong 
corps  of  editors,  and  with  blazing  feuilletons,  that  the  Paris 
world  could  not  spare,  even  in  time  of  Revolution,  were  not 
suspended,  hut  reverted,  after  stormy  discussion  of  stock¬ 
holders,  to  the  Republican  cause. 

It  was  not  a  little  strange,  and  even  ominous,  when  such 
journal  as  the  Debats ,  the  avowed  and  conscientious  apolo¬ 
gist  for  Guizot,  and  Spanish  marriages,  turned  its  old  mo¬ 
narchic  heading  into — Repnbliquc  Frangais. 

But  those  who  remembered  that  the  same  journal  had 
turned  from  support  of  Empire,  to  advocacy  of  Restoration 
— and  from  Charles  X.  to  Louis  Philippe,  were  not  disturbed 
Change  as  it  might,  however,  the  journal  changed  with  it  a 
vast  body  of  the  most  opulent  and  influential  of  the  Bour¬ 
geoisie.  Of  Paris  papers,  with  a  single  exception,  it  had  the 


126 


T  HE  B  A  T  T  I,  E  S  U  M  M  E  R  . 


largest  circulation,  and  was  to  be  found  in  every  Provincial 
Cafe  of  tolerable  .pretensions. 

Its  profits  were  enormous  :  its  numerous  stockholders  were 
receiving  handsome  incomes  from  their  dividends.  It  had 
numbered  among  its  contributors  in  days  past  such  men  as 
Villemain,  Salvandy,  Geoffroi,  Hoffman  and  Chateaubriand. 

It  could  still  boast  of  Guizot,  Malleville,  Chevalier  and 
Gautier. 

The  Constitutionnel ,  edited  by  Veron  and  Merreau,  turned 
perhaps  with  more  ease,  but  not  with  more  grace,  into  Re¬ 
publican  ranks.  This  too,  was  a  journal  of  amazing  influ¬ 
ence  with  trading  Bourgeois,  merchants,  capitalists  and  manu¬ 
facturers.  A  single  fiscal  article  in  its  columns  would  not 
unfrequently  create  a  difference  of  a  million  in  the  operations 
upon  ’Change.  Benjamin  Constant  had  been  one  of  its  ear- 
list  supporters  and  writers.  M.  Thiers,  at  the  date  of  the 
Revolution,  was  understood  to  be  a  large  stockholder,  and  its 
ablest  contributor. 

The  circulation  was  immense  ;  its  style  eminently  popular  ; 
its  Pcuilletons  brilliant  with  such  tales  as  the  Mysteries  of 
Paris ,  and  the  Capital  Sins.  Many  a  member  of  the 
Academy,  among  them  the  polished  and  erudite  Mignes, 
were  contributors  to  its  columns.  Its  literary  notices,  coming 
into  the  Feuilleton,  were  curt,  strong,  and  effective.  Its 
praise  was  a  living  to  a  struggling  author,  and  its  censure 
worse  than  robbery  of  his  pocket. 

These  two  journals  accepted  the  Republic  not  from  choice, 
but  policy.  They  defended  it  with  firmness,  but  no  ardor 


Newspapers. 


127 


They  were  not  the  admirers  of  the  New  Order,  but  its  apolo¬ 
gists.  The  enemies  they  feared,  were  not  so  much  without 
the  camp,  as  within. 

The  Presse  held  ground  by  itself.  It  was  principally  owned 
and  edited  by  Emile  Girardin,  whom  we  have  already  seen 
pushing  his  way  to  the  Palace  on  the  23d  of  February, — a 
man  who  had  first  won  notoriety  by  bis  advocacy  of  a  cheap 
paper  system,  and  by  his  duel-murder  of  the  beloved  Annand 
Carrel.  He  was  now  enlisting  attention  by  the  recklessness 
of  bis  course,  and  by  the  extraordinary  vigor  of  his  para¬ 
graphs. 

His  cheap  sj^stem,  as  much  from  the  energy  and  determina¬ 
tion  of  the  man,  as  from  its  intrinsic  value,  had  triumphed. 
It  bad  made  Girardin  and  his  paper  rich.  It  had  spread  his 
journal  among  sixty  thousand  subscribers  in  every  quarter  of 
France,  and  bad  given  to  his  articles  a  larger  daily  circula¬ 
tion  than  was  commanded  by  any  other  living  writer,  or  by 
any  existing  journal. 

He  bad  enlisted  in  his  columns  able  financial  and  diplo¬ 
matic  contributors,  and  such  literary  aids  as  Lamartine,  Cha¬ 
teaubriand,  Pelletan  and  Dumas.  Not  another  paper  had 
such  attractive  array  of  Feuilleton  names. 

Of  general  news — a  department  in  which  French  journals 
are  far  inferior  to  either  English  or  American, — he  is  fullest 
and  earliest  expositor. 

Of  political  discussion,  he  is  himself  chief  furnisher  ;  he 
possesses  the  happy  art  of  catching  opinions  in  advance  ;  he 


1 2S  The  Battle  Summer. 

detects  and  seizes  at  once  the  salient  points  occupying  the 
public  mind. 

His  untiring  industry  aids  him  no  less  than  his  energy 
and  his  quick  perceptions.  His  time  is  measured  with 
nicest  economy.  Hour  after  hour,  that  pale,  massive,  hand¬ 
some  forehead  of  his  is  bent  over  his  desk  in  the  dingy  Rue 
Montmartre ,  at  seasons  when  no  sound  stirs  the  street  silence, 
except  the  groaning  night-carts,  or  the  pace  of  the  patrol. 
His  short,  sharp  sentences,  easy  as  they  seem,  are  carefully 
wrought.  His  brilliant  antitheses  are  all  pointed  and  polish¬ 
ed  with  labor. 

His  vigor  and  independence  have  won  him  a  name  and  influ¬ 
ence,  which  even  his  maddest  vagaries  cannot  wholly  destroy. 
The  paper  had  been  a  bitter  opponent  of  the  Guizot  policy, 
while  it  manifested  little  sympathy  for  Thiers  or  Barrot.  It 
accepted  the  Republic,  while  it  doubted  of  its  favorable  issue 
under  such  ministration  as  the  Provisional  Government  fur¬ 
nished.  It  espoused  democratic  sentiment,  while  it  sneered 
at  Louis  Blanc  and  Raspail. 

Girardin  possesses  one  of  those  antagonistic  minds  which 
retains  its  vigor  and  brightness  only  by  constant  collision.  If 
he  descended  to  praise,  he  would  be  feeble  and  insipid  ;  while 
he  menaces  or  condemns,  he  is  strong  and  eloquent. 

His  penchant  at  one  point,  led  him  too  far  for  the  spirit  of 
the  time  ;  his  office  was  mobbed.  Bin  to  such  a  man  a  mob¬ 
bing  is  an  invigorator.  It  flings  new  venom  into  his  pen,  and 
new  brilliancy  into  his  pleadings. 

He  delights  in  proposing  and  advocating  with  infinite  ad- 


Newspapers. 


123 


dress,  schemes  which  are  quite  impossible.  He  has  all  of 
.Rousseau’s  vanity  of  style,  a  great  deal  of  his  adroitness,  but 
none  of  his  sensibility.  He  might  perhaps,  have  written  the 
“  Letters  from  the  Mountain  but  he  could  not  by  any  pos¬ 
sibility  have  accomplished  the  three  first  chapters  of  the 
“  Confessions.” 

- An  resle,  he  is  as  vain  as  Robespierre,  as  impetuous 

as  Marat,  as  strange  as  St.  Just.  He  prints  his  own  pla¬ 
card,  avows  his  own  candidatecy,  cries  his  own  faith. 

He  is  an  odd,  striking  jumble  of  brilliancies,  and  errors  ; 
strong  and  headstrong  ;  conceited,  and  full  of  glowing  con¬ 
ceits  ;  crying  out  for  discipline,  and  setting  the  camp  on  fire  ; 
— at  once  the  most  troublesome  and  truthsome  man  of  his 
time — the  very  embodiment  of  French  spirit — a  splendid 
phantasmagoria  ! 

Upon  the  whole,  the  paper  favored  the  Bourgeois  interests, 
as  opposed  to  the  crude  demands  of  Labor-organizers  ;  it  was 
nevertheless  a  firm  advocate  for  the  fulfillment  of  all  Provi¬ 
sional  promises.  It  disturbed  more  than  any  journal  of 
Paris,  the  balance  of  the  public  mind,  and  has  contributed 
throughout  the  stormy  year,  to  add  to  that  unfixed,  hesitating, 
vacillating  temper,  which  still  bides  the  issues  of  Time  and 
Destiny. 

The  Siecle,  dignified,  strong,  but  not  popular — of  compa¬ 
ratively  modern  date, — had  for  its  principal  supporter,  and 
weightiest  contributor  Odilon  Barrot.  Its  tone  reverted 

O 

with  that  of  the  Conslilulionnel  to  the  advocacy  of  a  Re 
public. 


6 


130 


T  he  Ba  t  t  l  e  Sc  m  m  e  r  . 


Tbe  National ,  long  known  as  the  most  prominent  liberal 
paper  of  Paris,  bad  achieved  its  reputation  under  the  united 
labors  of  such  men  as  Thiers,  Guizot,  Mignet,  and  even 
Barrot,  and  the  veteran  Arago.  Later,  it  had  acquired  a 
still  more  splendid  notoriety,  under  tbe  sparkling,  vigorous, 
soldier-like  pen  of  Armand  Carrel.  At  the  date  of  February, 
Marrast  was  its  principal  editor,  sustained  by  such  friends  as 
Marie,  Bastide,  Pages  ;  and  most  indeed  of  those  Deputies, 
who  early  declared  for  a  Republic. 

Its  articles  were  strong,  hut  not  unfrequently  dull,  and 
tedious.  Its  correspondence  was  well-arranged,  and  of  inter¬ 
est.  Its  tone  was  from  the  first,  purely  and  boldly  Republican. 

The  Feuilletons  of  the  two  last-named  journals,  did  not 
form  so  attractive  a  feature  as  in  the  Debats  or  the  Constitu- 
tionnel.  Their  class  of  readers  was  more  exclusively  political. 

The  Reforme ,  the  violent  organ  of  Ledru  Rollin,  to  which 
he  with  Flocon  were  principal  contributors,  and  within  whose 
bureau  was  arranged  the  Provisional  Government,  that  at  the 
Hotel  de  Villc  blended  with  the  previous  one  of  the  Chambers, 
was  the  strong  apologist  for  the  Sand  Circulars  ;  and  in  advo¬ 
cacy  of  thorough  Revolutionary  doctrines,  stopped  only  short 
of  the  Commune  of  Sobrier,  and  the  Pcwple  of  Prudhon. 
It  was  written  with  spirit,  but  with  little  tact  or  taste. 

For  many  years  there  has  been  established  at  Paris  a  news¬ 
paper,  well  known  on  the  Continent  and  in  this  country,  called 
Galignanrs  Messenger.  It  is  edited,  and  published  in  Eng¬ 
lish,  by  an  Italian.  Its  sympathies  are  anti-revolutionary, 
and  anti-republican,  to  a  degree  that  would  be  odious,  if  it 


Newspapers. 


131 


were  not  ridiculous.  Its  influence  is  utter.y  inappreciable. 
It  is  valued  for  its  marriage  and  birth  list — its  transcripts  from 
British  Journals,  and  its  weak  abstracts  of  the  French.  It 
has  no  character  to  maintain,  and  is  esteemed  for  what  it  bor¬ 
rows.  It  is  the  delight  of  such  old  gentlemen  as  cover  their 
ignorance  of  French  with  a  sneer,  and  of  such  travelling  nur¬ 
sery  maids  as  love  the  gossip  of  the  Post. 

It  is  tolerated  in  its  naughtiest  abuses,  as  a  kind  of  bait  for 
British  strangers  ;  and  it  is  not  feared  or  suppressed,  simply 
because  it  has  not  the  capacity  to  be  harmful. 

Yet,  strange  to  say,  this  is  the  organ  from  which  more  than 
half  of  American  Journalists  derive  ail  their  information  in 
regard  to  Continental  affairs  ! 

The  Democratic  Pacijiquc ,  edited  by  Victor  Considerant, 
now  a  political  exile,  is  the  accredited  organ  of  Fourierism. 
Its  sympathies  were  naturally  with  the  Revolution,  and  with 
the  Republic.  M.  Considerant  is  a  man  of  ability,  capable 
of  affecting  much,  if  he  were  not  the  victim  of  that  sad  mono¬ 
mania,  to  which  his  journal  stands  pledged.  He  was  early  at 
issue  with  the  Provisional  Government  on  questions  involving 
more  or  less  the  success  of  his  social  plans. 

Among  the  multitude  of  journals  established  after  the  Revo¬ 
lution,  the  most  noticeable  were  the  Assemble?.  National?,  the 
Bien  Public ,  and  the  Representant  clu  Pen  pie,  (more  re¬ 
cently  the  Peuple.) 

The  first  was  high  Bourgeois,  assenting  only  to  such  Repub¬ 
lican  measures  as  disheartened  street  throngs — heartily  favor¬ 
ing  a  monarchic  return,  and  the  strongest  advocate  for  sever; 


132 


The  Battle  S  u  m  m  f.  r  . 


military  rule.  Its  political  idol  was  tire  late  Marecha. 
Bugcaud. 

The  Bien  Public  was  established  under  the  auspices 
of  Lamartine.  It  sustained  his  views,  and  his  reputation 
throughout.  It  was  moderate  and  dignified  in  character,  and 
was  distinguished  for  the  grace  and  finish  of  its  articles.  It 
wore,  more  than  any  of  its  cotemporaries,  an  air  of  honesty. 
Shortly  after  the  Presidential  election  it  became  merged  in 
the  P?-csse. 

The  Representant  du  P tuple  was  at  once  the  strongest  and 
most  vehement  of  all  respectable  representatives  of  the  Red 
Republic.  Prudhon  was  its  establisher,  owner,  and  chief  con¬ 
tributor.  It  is  avowedly  the  advocate  of  Labor,  as  opposed  to 
Capital.  The  great  revolution  by  which  capital  shall  be 
overturned,  and  made  subordinate  to  the  influence  of  labor, 
has  in  his  view  yet  to  be  accomplished  ;  and  to  the  attainment 
of  this  end,  he  devotes,  with  all  the  ardor  of  a  fanatic,  no 
mean  powers. 

Prudhon  is  a  logical  reasoner,  of  quick  wit,  and  most  keen 
satire.  His  articles  remind  one  not  unfrequently  of  the 
drollery  of  Rabelais.  He  is  as  low,  and  he  is  as  pointed. 

He  has  been  subjected  to  fines  without  number  ;  his  jour¬ 
nal  has  been  suspended,  suppressed ;  and  finally,  he  himself 
is  imprisoned. 

He  has  a  shuffling  gait — a  heavy  German  face,  encircled  by 
coarse,  stiff  whiskers,  shaved  well  back  on  face  and  throat, 
— a  huge  mouth,  turned  up  slightly  at  the  corners,  with  a 


Newspapers. 


133 


lurking  humor ;  he  wears  enormous  round-eyed  spectacles,  a 
seedy  hat,  coarse,  ill-fitting  clothes — in  short,  you  would 
sooner  suspect  him  of  being  a  marchand  d' habits  from  the 
Temple,  than  the  writer  of  such  sharp,  caustic  paragraphs,  as 
used  to  appear  morning  after  morning,  in  the  little  penny 
journal  of  The  People. 

But  we  have  scarcely  begun  with  the  new  journals.  There 
was  the  Vieux  Cordelier  of  poor  Demoulins  revived — not 
now  with  his  acuteness — and  hearing  for  motto,  this  amiable 
menace —  Tremblez  Bourgeois  ! 

The  Pere  du  Chine  was  taken  from  the  tomb  of  ’93,  and 
resuscitated  with  all  the  fury  that  belonged  to  the  paper  of 
Hebert.  The  Cause  du  Peuple ,  edited  for  a  time  by 
George  Sand,  was  soon  merged  in  the  True  Republic ,  under 
guidance  of  Barbes  and  Pierre  Leroux. 

There  was  beside,  the  Mere  Duchene ,  and  the  Voix  des 
Femmes ,  each  living  a  short  life, — each  succeeded  by  some¬ 
thing  more  violent,  or  absurd. 

A  hundred  and  more  of  such  were  scattered  over  Paris,  du¬ 
ring  the  three  months  that  followed  the  February  revolt. 
They  can  be  found  now,  only  in  the  vast  receptacle  of 
the  National  Library  or  the  portfolios  of  curious  collectors. 

We  have  given  these  extended  notices,  since  the  influence  of 
Paris  Journals  upon  popular  feeling  is  vast.  Nor  is  this  in¬ 
fluence  created  or  sustained,  so  much  by  any  acquired  repu¬ 
tation  which  may  belong  to  particular  Journals,  as  by  the 
spirit  and  force  of  special  articles.  A  brilliant  and  vigorous 


134 


The  Battle  S  u m m e  r 


appeal  will  be  felt  iu  every  Cafe — will  be  talked  of  in  every 
Salon.  Impulsive  Parisian  nature  is  not  acted  upon  so  much 
'by  memory  of  past  dignity,  as  fervor  of  present  action. 

Hence  it  is,  that  talent  ot  the  first  order,  finds  an  arena 
worthy  of  itself  in  the  columns  of  the  daily  Journal.  To  be 
a  Journalist — successful,  applauded,  admired,  is  not  second  to 
any  French  reputation  whatever.  The  first  of  French  States¬ 
men,  the  first  in  the  Church,  the  spectacled  scholars  of 
the  Academy,  the  keen  professors  at  the  Sorbonne,  are 
contributors  to  the  daily  newspapers.  The  Editor,  if  dis¬ 
tinguished  in  his  profession,  is  courted ;  he  makes  a  group 
about  him,  in  corners  of  princely  salons ;  his  pen  will  startle 
Paris. 

Hence  too,  it  is,  that  the  wealth  of  Paris  journals  is  di¬ 
verted  from  the  channels  of  mere  news-gathering — where  it 
naturally  runs  with  a  commercial  people  like  Americans — 
and  goes  to  secure  the  highest  talent  of  the  country.  No 
premium  is  too  great  for  an  accomplished  paragraphist. 
Fifty,  seventy,  or  one  hundred  dollars  are  not  unfrequently 
the  prices  for  a  single  newspaper  article. 

Such  vehicle  of  influence  as  a  Paris  press  had  its  weight 
with  the  new-born  Republic.  Without  its  support,  all  would 
have  been  lost ;  and  its  varying  tone  and  complex  discus¬ 
sions  have  kept  definitiveness  of  issue  it  bay.  The  suppres¬ 
sion  of  a  journal  is  equal  to  the  suppression  of  an  army. 

Bourgeois  wealth  had  early  secured  the  men  of  talent  to 
the  Bourgeois  cause.  Labor,  and  Labor-organizations  fought 


Palace  of  the  Luxembourg. 


135 


at  disadvantage.  Single  pens,  like  those  of  Prudhon,  and 
Louis  Blanc,  and  even  Geo.  Sand,  and  indefatigable  Lamcn- 
nais,  grew  feeble  with  excess  of  effort.  No  strong  corps  of 
Academicians  behind  the  scenes,  relieved  the  intensity  of 
their  labor. 

We  shall  find  them  wearying,  and  worrying  into  vehe¬ 
mence  and  rancor. 

The  Bourgeois  journals,  meantime,  with  consummate  art, 
are  arraying  every  faculty,  whether  of  brilliant  feuilletonist, 
or  sagacious  generalizer,  or  acute  special  pleader,  to  moderate 
the  issues  of  Revolution,  and  to  warp  even  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  time,  into  respect  for  property,  and  for  all  vested 
rights. 


XVIII. 


Palace  of  the  Luxembourg. 


N  the  old  Palace  of  the  Peers — in  their  splendid,  semi- 


-  A  circular  Assembly  Hall,  is  met,  not  long'  after  this  Feb¬ 
ruary  Revolution,  a  very  different  company.  The  whito 
heads,  and  gold-tipped  canes,  and  gentlemanly  air  of  Peers 
— Peers  by  birth,  and  Peers  by  adoption,  arc  no  longer  to  be 
seen  at  those  luxurious  desks. 

In  their  place  is  met,  an  earnest,  ill-dressed,  ill-satisfied  corps 
of  working-men’s  Deputies.  In  the  speaker’s  chair,  high  and 
throne-like — under  shadow  of  the  tall  statues  of  Colbert  and 


136 


The  Battle  Summer. 


d’Agousseau,  is  seated  the  small,  blue-eyed  man,  whom  we 
have  already  seen  in  a  hook-shop  of  the  Rue  de  Seine. 

Busts  of  warriors  along  the  frieze,  and  painted  Gods  in  the 
plafond  of  the  ceiling,  seem  to  regard  with  strange  eyes,  this 
strange  workingman’s  Assembly. 

Along  the  desks,  were  to  be  seen  brawny  arms,  uncovered 
by  blouse,  and  heavy  shoulders  stooping  with  the  labor  of 
years  ;  artisans  of  every  character  ;  coachmen,  lookingly  un¬ 
easily  in  their  place  ;  and  smutty  coal-heavers ;  and  lank 
Seine  boatmen ;  and  velveteen-jacketted  porters ;  and  bluff 
water-carriers  ;  and  intelligent  pale-faced,  journeyman  print¬ 
ers.  And  the  blue-eyed  man,  who  addresses  them,  in  meas¬ 
ured  words,  and  in  silver-toned  voice,  wears  a  face  innocent 
of  all  labor,  except  the  most  harassing  of  labors  ;  and  his  hand 
has  known  no  implement  of  handicraft,  except  the  smallest, 
the  most  powerful,  the  most  dangerous  of  implements — a  pen. 
It  was  theory  instructing  practice  :  a  pigmy  in  a  parliament 
of  giants. 

Even  bonnetted  milliner-women  were  not  absent,  but  looked 
intently  at  the  fair  forehead  of  the  speaker — won  more  by  the 
grace  of  his  appearance,  than  by  the  force  of  his  reasoning. 

There  are  present  too,  Socialist  teachers  of  nearly  every 
faith  ; — Raspail,  and  Prudhon,  and  Leroux,  eager  to  see  what 
will  be  consummated  under  the  auspices  of  Louis  Blanc. 

Nor  was  his  reasoning  on  the  occasion  of  that  first  as¬ 
semblage,  either  vain,  or  incomplete.  It  was  in  favor  of 
reducing  the  time  of  day-labor  ; — in  order  first — says  he, — • 
that  thosD  without  work  may  be  provided  with  work ;  and 


Palace  of  tiie  Luxembourg. 


137 


second,  that  the  laborer  may  have  one  hour — at  least  one  a 
day,  to  give  to  his  minds-life,  and  to  his  heart. 

He  further  advised,  and  planned  a  system  of  association,  by 
■which  rates  of  remuneration  might  be  agreed  upon,  and  estab¬ 
lished— not  as  formerly,  by  police — but  by  a  committee  of 
artisans  themselves.  This  first  sitting  was  a  triumph  for 
Louis  Blanc. 

Yet  at  the  same  time,  while  this  commission  of  Labor  is  in 
session, — a  crowd  of  boisterous  workmen  is  at  the  doors,  vo¬ 
ciferating,  and  crying,  because  not  admitted  to  a  parliament 
of  its  own  advocates, — a  parliament  already  too  full  for  any 
successful  details  of  business. — So  strange,  and  so  unreasonable 
are  the  demands  of  ignorant,  infuriated  masses  ! 

But  is  Louis  Blanc,  are  his  delegates,  and  his  co-operating 
workers  satisfied  with  this  naming  of  Labor  Commission  ?  Has 
the  Republic,  and  the  Provisional  Power  given  them  what 
they  wish,  in  placing  them  in  the  magnificent  Chamber  of 
the  Luxembourg  ; — in  putting  Royal  huissiers  at  their  dis¬ 
posal  ; — in  permitting  them  to  serve  their  table  as  they 
choose  ;  and  giving  them  opportunity  to  discuss,  long  as  they 
choose,  and  with  whom  they  choose,  the  doctrines  so  long 
bruited,  of  helping  the  Labor  estate  ? 

Not  at  all:  the  Government  has  given  them  all  this,  it  is 
true,  but  it  has  placed  no  special  funds  at  their  disposal.  It 
has  not  given  Treasury,  and  Luxembourg  together.  A  man 
so  thoroughly  the  advocate  of  a  theory  as  Louis  Blanc,  is 
never  satisfied  with  half-measures. 

Already  his  Commission  of  the  Luxembourg  grows  jealous  of 


13S 


The  Battle  Summer 


tlie  National  workshops,  organized  by  the  Provisional  Power 
at  large,  and  placed  under  the  direction  of  a  man,  having 
little  claim  to  the  position,  except  a  loud  tongue,  a  good  ap¬ 
pearance,  and  a  vociferous  Republicanism, — Emile  Thomas. 

Yet  to  those  Public  shops,  gorged  with  the  failing  treasures 
of  the  State  come  thronging  all  the  unemployed,  and  all  the 
idle  blouse-wearers  of  Paris,  and  the  Banlieu.  Brigades  were 
organized,  and  they  worked  by  companies,  at  such  work  as 
could  be  easiest  procured.  There  was  a  rate  for  in-door 
workers,  and  a  rate  for  out-door  workers ;  a  rate  for  those 
who  did  nothing,  and  a  rate  for  those  busied  with  small  wheel¬ 
barrow  loads  of  earth.  It  was  all  jovial,  and  spicy  ;  work¬ 
men  sang  together,  drank  together,  and  danced  together. 

These  public-shops  had  indeed  cleared  Paris  streets  of  those 
turbid  night-singers  of  Marseillaise  ;  but  they  were  schooling 
them  for  a  new,  and  more  terrible  Marseillaise. 

The  Government  had  satisfied  its  promise ;  Labor  was  se- 
-  cured  ;  Labor  was  organized  :  at  least  if  public  shop,  and  the 
■Commission  at  the  Luxembourg  might  be  called  organization. 
The  Faubourgs  were  appeased ;  but  how  long  will  they  re¬ 
main  appeased  ? 

The  History  of  that  Commission  at  the  Luxembourg  may 
thus  early,  in  the  history  of  the  French  Republic,  be  termi¬ 
nated.  The  Commission  was  the  origin  of  a  few  voluntary 
associations  of  workmen,*  which  are  not  without  their  utility, 
and  which  still  exist.  For  the  rest,  it  was  the  arena  for 
strong,  complex,  angry,  philosophic  discussion,  which  the  hos- 

*  Ap pel  auz  Honnetes  Gens.  Par  Louis  Blanc.  1849. 


The  Clubs  of  April. 


139 


tility  of  the  rival  disputants,  and  the  antagonism  of  their  plans 
rendered  utterly  unavailing.  No  grand  scheme  was  nearer 
adoption,  at  the  close  of  its  labors,  than  at  the  beginning. 

The  laboring  people,  whom  the  pompous  title  of  the  Com¬ 


mission,  and  the  august  place  of  its  sittings,  and  the  variety, 


and  ability  of  its  delegates,  had  led  to  hope  great  things,  were 
destined  to  reap  from  the  measure,  only  most  miserable  dis¬ 
appointment. 

- So  ended  the  magnificent  organization  of  Labor,  that 

was  to  spring  from  the  Luxembourg  Commission  ! 


XIX. 


The  Clubs  of  April. 


^TXHE  election  for  those  representatives  of  the  people,  who 


JL  are  to  make  for  France  a  Constitution,  approaches.  It 
forms  the  topic  of  talk  in  Cafe,  in  Salon,  in  Journal,  but  most 
of  .all,  in  Clubs.  Early  in  April,  no  less  than  forty  are 
organized,  holding  their  night  sittings  in  the  old  Church  of  the 
Assumption — opposite  the  Halle,  au  J3le, — in  the  Salle  Mon¬ 
tesquieu, — in  the  Hall  of  Spectacles , — at  Montmartre,  and  in 
the  Cite. 

Not  like  any  other  clubs  are  French  clubs  ;  the  quick,  im¬ 
pulsive  nature  of  the  people,  luxuriates  in  the  informality,  the 
license,  and  the  blazing  passion  of  those  evening  sessions. 

The  French  Lecturer,  at  the  Sorbonne,  or  Conservatory,  is 
the  quietest  of  Lecturers  ;  an.l  his  audience  the  quietest  of 


140 


The  Battle  Summer. 


audiences.  His  fame  aucl  knowledge  will  secure  to  him  al¬ 
most  breathless  auditors.  Yet  he  takes  no  pompous  airs  ;  his 
dress  is  plain  to  a  fault ;  he  steals  in  at  a  little  side-door  by 
the  desk,  and  looks  over  his  apparatus,  his  hones,  his  bottles, 
or  his  jars,  as  if  he  were  hut  a  boy-assistant ;  he  makes'  a 
slight,  graceful,  but  only  half-noticeable  inclination  to  the 
audience  ; — he  rubs  his  hands,  and  commences,  as  if  he  were 
chatting  with  a  party  of  friends. 

He  goes  on  softly,  currently,  easily  as  a  stream — never 
rustled,  never  disturbed, — -warming  here  and  there  into  a 
charming  bit  of  eloquent  episode,  as  deftly,  and  carelessly 
thrown  in,  as  the  sunbeam  that  steals  through  a  chink  of  the 
waving  curtain  ; — pauses, — looks  at  his  watch, — runs  on  for  a 
moment, — bows, — is  done. 

The  Paris  club  is  the  reverse  in  every  particular  of  Paris 
lecture-room.  Here  the  audience  consists  of  so  many  lectur¬ 
ers,  all  eager,  because  all  competent  to  instruct.  The  chair¬ 
man  is  clanging  his  bell ;  the  speaker  pounding  the  desk  in 
passion  ;  the  listeners,  arguing  side-questions  nearly  as  vo¬ 
ciferously  as  the  orator. 

The  election-laws,  the  candidates,  the  claims,  the  issues 
are  bruited  from  desk  to  gallery,  and  the  inflamed,  divided 
mass,  whose  shallow  political  opinions  are  only  disturbed,  and 
muddied  by  the  session,  goes  home  at  one  in  the  morning, 
bawling  unmeaning  street-cries. 

The  difference  between  Paris  Club,  and  American  political 
meeting,  is  eminently  typical  of  the  difference  between  the 
two  people: — The  one,  fresh  in  political  discussion, — the 


The  Clubs  of  April. 


141 


other,  old  :  the  one  disposed  to  be  philosophic,  searching, — 
the  other,  practical,  utilitarian  :  the  one  dealing  with  dogmas 
on  which  all  political  society  is  supposed  to  rest, — the  other, 
debating  every  day,  matters  of  finance  and  trade  :  the  pa¬ 
triotism  of  the  first,  gratifies  itself  in  utterance  of  noisy  sen¬ 
timent, — that  of  the  other,  in  imposing  array  of  statistics. 

Finance,  tariff,  judicial  questions,  even  those  of  police  re¬ 
gulation  have  little  to  do  with  Paris  Club-talk  ;  these  are  all 
subordinate  ;  at  the  Clubs  they  affect  deeper  inquiry.  Free¬ 
mens’  rights  (meaning,  by  a  pleasant  club-instituted  metono- 
my,  French  rights,)  relations  of  man  to  man, — of  Capital  to 
Labor, — these  are  the  engrossing  themes,  the  elements  of 
Club  action  ;  which  being  settled, — and  God  only  knows  how 
long  French  Clubs  will  be  in  their  settlement — and  finance, 
police,  justice,  order,  follow  on,  as  legal  and  infallible  sequi- 
turs. 

Sometimes,  it  is  true,  in  some  Paris  Clubs,  where  went 
such  as  Arago, — as  Lacordaire  the  Dominican, — Chevallier, 
the  old  disciple  of  Enfantin,— Lamcnnais,  the  erudite  seceder 
from  Church  and  State,  these  questions  are  discussed  with  a 
nicety,  a  discriminating  exactitude,  that  fatigue  the  mind,  and 
which  would  drive  away  most  American  audiences  in  despair. 

In  others,  the  wild,  eloquently-uttered  sentiments,  succeed¬ 
ing  each  other  in  the  crowded  arena,  like  blazes  of  lightning 
flashing  over  a  sultry  August  earth,  would  entrance  and  be¬ 
wilder  ;  and  you  would  no  longer  wonder  at  the  enthusiasm 
which  sent  hordes  of  qa-ira  singers,  tramping  through  bril 
liant  Paris  streets  till  midnight. 


142  The  Battle  Summer. 

Among  the  most  disorderly,  and  yet  strongest  of  the  Clubs, 
was  that  organized  and  directed  by  Blanqui,  and  Bernard  ; 
the  orators  chiefly  old  political  prisoners. 

Blanqui  was  its  soul, — a  man  born  a  conspirator.  In  1839 
he  had  been  condemned  to  death,  for  his  participation  in  the 
conspiracy  of  the  12th  of  May ;  but  the  sentence  had  been 
commuted,  by  efforts  of  friends,  to  imprisonment  for  life. 

Born  in  the  south,  he  had  by  nature  a  fiery,  ungovernable, 
irascible  spirit ;  and  he  had  squandered  a  large  patrimonial  in- 
heritanc*  by  acts  of  noble  generosity,  and  in  affairs  of  reck¬ 
less  intrigue.  Full  of  life  and  action,  ten  years  of  dungeon 
confinement  had  in  reducing  fearfully  his  physical  powers, 
only  rendered  more  febrile  and  excitable  his  keen  and  rest¬ 
less  intellect. 

He  burst  upon  the  Paris  world  of  February,  from  the 
grave  of  his  prison  house,  haggard,  pale, — his  eye  restless,  his 
hair  fallen  away,  his  cheeks  cavernous,  his  breath  fetid,  his 
limbs  emaciated,  his  mind  unstrung  by  reverie  and  self-con¬ 
templation, — yet  still  impatient,  furious,  ungovernable. 

His  health  lay  in  his  madness  ;  the  crazier  his  plans,  the 
more  regular  his  action ;  the  wilder  the  impossibility,  the 
more  superhuman  were  his  efforts.  His  suffering  and  appear¬ 
ance  won  upon  popular  sympathy.  The  people  remembered 
that  a  great  estate,  and  the  luxuries  of  wealth  had  been  his  : 
— they  remembered  how  youth,  and  youthful  triumph  had 
been  exchanged  for  the  silence,  and  desolation  of  a  dungeon  ; 
they  listened  with  eagerness  to  that  voice  grown  tremulous  at 


Election  Week. 


143 


forty,  and  Lis  unnatural  fervor  enchained  them  — He  was 
the  most  dangerous  man  of  the  time. 

But  other  Clubs  were  not  wanting  either  force  or  friends  ; — • 
Clubs  too,  jealous  of  this  Blanqui  Club. 

The  party ,  which  in  the  early  days  had  been  clamorous 
before  the  Hotel  de  Ville  for  the  red  banner,  was  working  in 
secret.  Neither  Labor  Commission,  nor  public  shop,  nor 
universal  suffrage  had  satisfied  the  more  violent  of  Club-men. 
They  scowled  in  their  St.  Antoine  wine-shops,  and  whispered 
each  other  that  twenty  thousand  heads  must  fall  ! 

And  he  must  have  been  a  keen  prophet,  who  could  have 
foretold  in  that  time,  whether  they  would,  or  would  not. 


XX. 


Election  Week. 


THE  strife  that  Clubs  were  breeding  between  Bourgeois, 
and  Blouse  has,  by  the  16th  of  April,  ripened  into 
premature  demonstration.  The  Government  was  before  the 
Club-leaders  ;  the  National  Guard  musketted  kept  pace  with 
array  of  incited  working  men.  The  cries — Death  to  Cabet, 
Death  to  Blanqui !  ran  fearfully  over  the  armed  Bourgeois 
ranks. 

But  the  elections  were  coming.  The  Provisional  Power, 
rejoicing  in  its  escape,  had  organized  a  sort  of  Fraternal  Fete 
to  precede  the  election.  The  Guard  were  to  pass  in  review 


144  The  Battle  Summer. 

before  the  Executive  Power,  and  banners  were  to  be  dis¬ 
tributed. 

That  day, — those  who  saw  it,  will  not  easily  forget. 
Every  great  thoroughfare  of  Paris  was  streaming  with  bayo¬ 
nets  ;  two  hundred  thousand  soldiers  were  inarching  with  ban¬ 
ners  and  music.  The  Champs  Elysees  were  thronged ;  the 
Great  Arch  of  Triumph  was  waving  with  banners.  High 
tribunes  on  either  side,  were  brilliant,  with  the  most  brilliant 
of  Paris  beauties.  At  night,  every  house  along  the  Boule¬ 
vard  glittered  with  blazing  lampions,  while  the  streaming 
troops  with  lighted  tapers  on  their  muskets,  made  the  whole 
length  of  street  seem  a  river  of  waving  stars. 

Cries  rise  like  hoarse  gusts  of  wind,  and  rustle  mile  by 
mile,  along  through  the  shining  houses — Long  live  the  Repub¬ 
lic  !  and — long  live  the  Army  ! 

The  walks  throng  with  men,  women  and  children,  follow¬ 
ing  fast  as  they  can  the  mass  of  shouting  civic  soldiers ; 
every  window  and  balcony  has  its  burden  of  lookers-on,  who 
catch  the  cry,  and  echo  it  from  roof  to  roof,  and  send  it  down 
in  huzza  of  triumph  to  approaching  soldier-columns.  The 
city  was  drunk  with  the  clamor,  and  the  light ; — Pa*ris  was 
reeling  in  unnatural  glee. 

The  election  followed.  Nothing  could  be  freer  than  the 
new  suffrage.  Every  French  citizen  of  one  and  twenty, 
whether  white,  red,  or  black,  if  only  not  subject  to  judicial 
sentence,  was  voter.  Young  men  of  twenty-five  years,  could 
be  candidates  for  Representatives. 

Paris  walls  grow  white  with  placards  ; — placards  addressed 


Election  Week. 


145 


to  Republicans,  to  Socialists,  to  Moderates,  to  Lyonnaise,  to 
Capitalists,  to  Workmen,  to  Patriots,  to  People,  and  to 
Women.* 

With  such  electioneering,  the  vote  draws  near.  The  Pro¬ 
vinces  are  here  and  there  disturbed  by  passing  gusts  of  dis¬ 
satisfaction,  or  revolt,  but  in  the  end  all  passes  tranquilly. 

On  the  evening  of  the  29th  April,  an  eager,  anxious,  tu¬ 
multuous  crowd  is  gathered  under  the  principal  windows  of 
the  Hotel  de  Ville.  Men  with  flambeaux  have  mounted 
upon  the  columns,  and  others  appear  at  the  little  loop-holes  of 
the  entre-sol.  The  light  flared  over  blouses  and  bayonets,; — • 
even  as  far  as  the  river  and  the  Pont  Michel.  The  guard 
who  encircled  the  Square  bore  torches,  and  enclosed  the 
place  with  a  line  of  fire. 

Presently  a  member  of  the  Provisional  Power  appears,  and 
announces,  in  such  silence  as  such  crowd  can  keep,  the  names 
of  the  successful  candidates  for  the  Department  of  the  Seine. 
First,  is  the  name  of  Lamartine,  having  259,800  votes. 
After  him,  comes  Dupont  (de  l’Eure,)  245,983. 

Then  follow  Arago,  Gamier  Pages,  Marrast,  Marie,  Cro- 
mieux,  Beranger,  Carnot,  the  General  Cavaignac,  book-sell¬ 
ing  Pagnerre,  strange,  philosophic  Buchez,  astute  Cormenin 
Caussidiere,  workman  Albert,  the  Pole  Wolowski,  Ledru  Rol- 
lin,  Flocon,  Louis  Blanc,  Bastide,  Protestant  Coquerel, 
prophet  Lamennais,  with  others  of  less  name  and  note. 

*  More  than  a  hundred  of  these  placards,  saved  from  the  wreck  of  time,  are 
now  laying  under  my  eye  ;  and  these  even,  form  but  a  small  fraction  of  the 
mass  with  which  every  vacant  wall  was  covered. — Vid.  Lea  Mura  de  Paria,  Par 
i m  Oarde  Nationale ,  1848. 

7 


146 


The  Battle  Summer. 


- And  how  many  of  these  are  with  Bourgeois,  and  how 

many  with  blouse.  How  many  are  named  by  those  masses  who 
on  the  sixteenth  were  hoping  for  Committee  of  Public  Safety, 
and  how  many  by  those  marching  National  Guard,  who  cried 
— Death  to  Cabet !  How  many  are  sympathizers  with  the 
Luxembourg  plotters  for  dignity  of  Labor,  and  how  many 
with  Emile  Thomas  of  the  Public  Workshops  ?  How  many 
accept  the  present  condition  of  affaiis  as  a  mere  guage  and 
promise  of  quick  and  earnest  advance,  and  how  many  regard 
it  as  only  a  needed  tolerance  of  public  excitation  ? 

The  members  of  the  Provisional  Power,  with  the  exception 
perhaps  of  Blanc,  Ledru  Rollin,  and  Albert,  had  commended 
themselves  alike  to  Guard  and  to  street-mass, — to  Bourgeois 
and  blouse.  Beside  these,  were  also  Cormenin,  Beranger,  Bas- 
tide,  Coquerel,  and  some  twenty  others,  who  had  not  rendered 
themselves  obnoxious  to  the  more  heated  Republicans,  and 
who  yet,  by  their  education,  position  and  opinion,  would  in¬ 
evitably  take  rank  with  the  defenders  of  property,  and  gene¬ 
rally  of  present  social  usage. 

Of  Socialists  proper,  were  Corbin,  Blanc,  Lamennais.  Of 
violent  Republicans,  gaining  their  election,  notwithstanding 
strong  Bourgeois  opposition,  were  Carnot,  Vavin,  Caussidiere, 
Albert,  Wolowski,  Flocon,  Recurt,  and  Perdiguier.  A  single 
one,  M.  Berger,  the  friend  and  admirer  of  Thiers,  was 
strongly  and  openly  anti-Republican. 

The  Bourgeois  then  were  represented  by  a  proportion  oi 
three  to  one. 

- Thus  much  for  Paris  representation ;  but  after  all 


City  and  Salon. 


147 


these  arc  but  thirty-four  voices  iu  a  company  of  nine  hundred. 
Blanqui-men  had  yet  much  to  hope  for  :  Bourgeois  had  yet 
much  to  fear. 


XXI. 


City  and  Salon. 


EPORTS  come  in  night  after  night,  from  the  Provinces. 


JLttJ  The  Government  discusses  with  feverish  anxiety,  the 
political  complexion  of  each  new  Representative.  The  quid¬ 
nuncs  talk  with  ardor  ;  the  Cafes  are  alive  with  conversa¬ 
tionists.  New  names  are  bruited  from  mouth  to  mouth ;  and 
lineage,  education,  and  political  bias,  are  ferretted  out,  with 
all  the  aids  of  registers,  and  Provincial  Journals.  The  Prcsse 
sends  out  its  extras,  bringing  down  intelligence  to  the  latest 
moment. 

The  men  of  the  Ateliers,  Nationaux ,  gleeful  with  their' 
easy-earned  wages,  are  sauntering  at  their  work  in  the  Parc 
Monceau,  or  along  the  quays  ;  and  cry — long  life  to  the  Gov¬ 
ernment,  that  supplies  us  with  home  and  bread  ! 

But  meantime  commerce  is  sadly  falling  off ;  no  strangers 
are  now  loitering  about  those  elegant  shops  of  Rue  de  la 
Paix,  for  trinkets  and  bijoux  ;  manufactories  are  closed  ;  the 
Railways  unable  to  complete  their  engagements  for  continu¬ 
ance  of  their  lines,  are  taken  in  hand  by  the  Government, 
whose  resources  between  fete-giving,  and  labor-payments,  and 
equipment  of  Garde  Mobile ,  are  fast  failing. 


148 


The  Battle  Summer. 


The  projected  plans  of  completing  the  Tuilleries,  and  ex¬ 
tending  the  markets,  loom  over  the  heads  of  Exchequer  men, 
more  and  more  gigantic.  Railway  shares  are  sadly  down,  and 
fluctuate  hour  by  hour.  The  rich  man  of  yesterday  is  poor 
to-day ;  and  rich  again  to-morrow.  The  holders  of  houses 
are  refusing  payment  of  rents  ;  and  uutenanted  buildings  can 
find  neither  lessees,  nor  buyers. 

- A  young  man  of  easy  fortune,  in  Paris  world,  has 

purchased  a  week  before  the  Revolution,  at  the  date  of  his 
marriage,  a  Hotel,  for  which  is  to  be  paid  the  sum  of  600,000 
francs.  Of  this,  one  half  remains  secured  upon  the  property. 
His  creditor  straitened  by  the  exigencies  of  the  time,  is  com¬ 
pelled  to  foreclose  the  mortgage  :  the  Hotel  realizes  a  week 
after  the  Revolution,  200,000  francs  only  ;  leaving  the  former 
rich  possessor  worse  than  bankrupt.  Judge,  if  such  worsted 
Bourgeois  would  fling  up  his  cap  for  the  Republic  ! 

Wealthy  families  of  St.  Germain,  finding  their  incomes  re¬ 
duced  by  a  third,  are  curtailing  expenses.  Horses  and  car¬ 
riages  are  sold  at  ruinous  rates.  Old  diners  at  the  Cafe  de 
Paris,  now  order  humble  meals  of  private  restaurateurs.  The 
Theatre,  that  sweetest  of  luxuries  to  a  Parisian  is  abjured. 
The  employees  of  the  Opera  are  deserting.  Except  upon 
free  nights — another  drain  upon  the  failing  treasury — the 
benches  are  never  full. 

Notwithstanding,  Parisian  Salons  are  not  quiet,  nor  dull. 
The  new  scenes,  the  approaching  assembly,  the  clubs,  the 
Briarian  Journalism,  the  depth,  and  interest  of  the  questions 
at  stake,  keep  the  public  mind  strung  to  its  utmost  tensity. 


149 


City  and  Salon. 

Nor  in  the  discussion  of  such  topics,  does  society  lose  that 
happy  grace,  and  ease  without  which,  Paris  society  would  be 
no  longer  itself.  A  certain  indescribable  bonhommie ,  and 
careless  freedom,  yet  throw  their  charms  over  the  most  serious 
of  Salon  talk. 

- Madame  P —  has  disposed  of  her  equipage  ;  she  has 

even  changed  her  quarters  from  the  premier,  to  the  entresol ; 
hut  she  wears  the  same  old  air  of  cheerfulness ;  she  disposes 
such  jewels  as  remain  with  double  effect ;  she  pities  her  friend, 
who  from  fear,  or  economy,  is  obliged  to  quit  Paris — la  belle 
Ville — even  in  its  worst  estate. 

You  enter  her  little  salon  of  an  evening; — an  elegant  little 
salon — though  scarce  ten  feet  above  the  street : — she  is  half- 
reclining  upon  a  luxurious  brocade-covered  chair  ; — her  dress 
is  disposed  with  the  same  artless  care  that  always  belongs  to 
a  French  lady’s  toilette ;  her  white  hand,  set  off  with  a  lace 
ruffle,  and  ornamented  by  a  single  brilliant,  lies  carelessly 
upon  the  richly  carved  arm  of  fauteuil.  She  receives  you,  half 
rising,  with  a  cheerful  smile  ; — beckons  you  by  a  wave  of  the 
hand,  to  a  seat,  and  resumes  with  the  most  unaffected  good 
humor,  and  flow  of  wit,  her  previous  talk. 

She  stops ; — she  remembers  that  you,  as  stranger,  would 
he  glad  to  know  on  what  topic  the  conversation  is  drifting  in 
these  troublous  times.  She  runs  over  in  an  instant  the  salient 
points  of  the  discussion ;  by  a  half  dozen  effective,  short 
sentences,  full  of  color,  of  verve,  and  action,  she  throws  the 
whole  burden  into  your  hands,  and  puzzles  you  for  an  expres¬ 
sion  of  opinion,  while  you  are  only  admiring  her  address. 


150 


The  Battle  Summer. 


A  tall,  thin-faced  Colonel  is  of  the  company, — a  Royalist 
in  feeling,  but  serving  now  in  Republican  army.  He  has  been 
educated  to  respect  old-fashioned  politicians  ;  he  has  no  faith 
in  Arago  or  Cremieux  ;  he  sneers  at  Lamartine,  and  berates 
unmercifully  the  cowardly,  truckling  measures  of  the  Pro¬ 
visional  Power. 

Another,  is  a  young  employee  in  an  important  bureau  of 
state  ; — quick,  penetrating,  overflowing  with  humor,  he  defends 
with  the  good  nature,  and  warm  abandon  of  youth,  a  system 
which  is  waking  all  the  youthful  blood  in  France.  He  would 
accept  the  Republic  even,  with  all  its  possible  excesses,  rather 
than  be  the  slave  of  that  system  which  by  force  of  bribery, 
and  corruption,  and  the  dogmas  of  feudal  habit  and  tradition, 
— denied  to  all  talent  its  prestige,  and  to  youthful  France,  its 
best  and  dearest  hopes. 

—  What  —  says  he  —  will  you  weigh  lost  property,  or 
damaged  commerce,  or  a  little  night-fear,  against  this  new 
nobleness  of  excitation — this  God-like  effort  for  something  bet¬ 
ter,  purer,  higher — by  which  intellect  shall  be  quickened,  new 
faculties  developed,  new  sympathies  awakened,  and  every  old 
nation  of  Europe  suddenly  started  into  consciousness  of  those 
active,  and  present  faculties,  with  which  heaven  has  blessed 
them, — not  for  sloth,  and  unrest,  but  the  most  extended,  pos¬ 
sible  development  ? 

—  You  see — says  Madame — glancing  round  at  her  humble 
entresol,  with  what  sympathy  my  friends  console  me.  But 
allons,  courage  !  You  must  not,  my  dear  Colonel,  bear  so 
hardly  on  our  pcet  Lamartine. 


City  and  Salon. 


151 


• —  Qibhl  est  him,  cet  homme  ! — murmurs  the  young  man. 

—  It  is  the  worst  to  say  of  him — continues  Madame, — that 
he  is  unused  to  power.  But  what  better  prestige  than  this  for 
a  people  with  whom  power  is  new  ?  You  cannot  surely  doubt 
his  humanity,  nor  his  generosity,  nor  his  devotion  ;  and  for 
philosophy,  what  is  better  than  that  which  springs  out  of  the 
hour  (a  true  French  sentiment)  tempered  by  adversity,  and 
lighted  with  poetic  ardor  ? 

The  topic  changes  as  easily  as  words  flow  from  a  French¬ 
woman’s  lips. 

—  And  you  have  seen  the  play  of  Geo.  Sand, — Le  Roi 

attend;  and  Mademoiselle - is  she  not  gracieuse ?  but 

ma  foi,  what  audience  !  Poor  Madame  Dudevant !  they  say 
she  is  utterly  disconsolate  at  Tours  ; — no  wonder — so  inspired 
by  the  change  ; — a  Lelia,  at  last  found  a  pure,  and  loving 
Stcnio  !  But  I  forget,  you  have  not  been  to  the  spectacle , 
since  the  unfortunate  night  of  that  terrible,  chanting  crowd, 
— quelle  horreur  ! 

—  Yet  how  patiently,  how  earnestly  they  listened  even  to 
Corneille  ? 

—  And  who  would  not,  with  such  interpreter  as  Rachel  ? 
— noble  in  Elvira,  but  how  like  a  ghost  of  the  bloody  past,  in 
her  white  robe  chanting  that  fearful  Marseillaise  ! 

—  God  save  us — says  an  old  lady  in  the  corner — from  those 
terrible  Canaille  ! 

- Thus  much,  to  give  an  idea  of  the  tone,  and  change  of 

the  salon  talk. 

Madame  P —  is  a  quick,  Parisian  lady, — of  more  years  bv 


152 


The  Battle  Summer. 


a  dozen  than  you  -would  credit  her — whose  judgment  lies  in 
her  fancy  ;  she  is  a  true  philosopher — meaning  only  life  phi¬ 
losophy — because  her  philosophy  consoles,  and  forgets. 

The  Colonel  is  a  stiff,  austere  reader  of  the  Debats  news¬ 
paper  :  he  is  of  highest  Bourgeois ;  his  friends  among  the 
bankers,  and  old  noblesse. 

The  young  man  is  of  some  school  of  St.  Cyr,  with  clever¬ 
ness  and  life  ; — some  accident  may  give  him  position  that  will 
make  him  great ;  or  kill  him  on  some  June  barricade. 

The  old  lady  is  nurtured  in  the  faith  of  the  old  regime, — 
perhaps  was  one  of  the  siospecte  of  Robespierre ;  with  her,  a 
Republic  is  a  night-mare,  and  all  people—  Canaille. 


Blouse  anb  ^Vsscmbln. 


BLOUSE  AND  ASSEMBLY. 


I. 

Fourth  of  May. 

MAY  4th,  the  expected  and  the  dreaded  day, — the  day 
for  the  opening  of  the  National  Assembly  is  at  length 
come.  Timid  strangers,  fearful  of  emmte  have  withdrawn 
from  the  city;  while  bolder  ones,  wanderers  many  of  them, 
— careless  of  life,  eager  to  look  on,  have  attended  this  first 
day  of  Representative  assemblage,  with  intense  interest. 

The  new  Hall,  in  the  rear  of  the  old  Palace  of  the  Depu¬ 
ties,  has  risen  in  less  than  a  month  under  the  hands  of  Paris 
architects  and  workmen,  into  a  stately  building.  Its  walls 
are  of  heavy  masonry,  decorated  with  fresco  ;  its  ceiling  of 
painted  canvas.  Emblems  of  the  Republic,  and  of  France, 
— fasces,  liberty-caps,  scales,  adorn  its  front  ;  and  the  date 
of  February  blazes  in  gold,  along  the  whole  range  of  its  in¬ 
terior  frieze. 

But  the  interest  with  which  strangers,  and  curious  ones, 
regarded  fresco  and  portal,  and  ceremony,  was  small,  compar- 


156 


The  Battle  Summer. 


cd  with  that  deeper  interest  with  which  the  various  parties, 
and  indeed  the  whole  world  of  Paris  looked  to  the  assemblage, 
and  first  acts  of  a  Convention,  which  was  to  new  mould  the 
destinies  of  France. 

The  Bourgeois — those  timid  shop-keepers, — those  old  ladies 
of  lodging  houses, — those  fat,  pompous  bankers, — those  errant 
country-bred  priests — were  anxious  to  be  assured  by  some 
definite  action  of  a  normal  legal  authority,  that  enough  of 
Conservatism  remained  to  secure  all  established  rights,  and  to 
resist  effectively  that  spirit  of  mingled  anarchy,  and  crazy  hu¬ 
manity, — misrule,  and  philosophic  inquiry, — conspiracy  and 
hope, — zeal  for  progress,  and  political  infatuation,  which  was 
raging  like  strong,  floundering  leviathan,  in  club,  and  in  street. 

Eager  Republicans,  Club-orators,  St.  Cyr  students,  Reforme 
editors,  were  solicitous  to  ascertain  if  their  hopes  and  efforts 
would  after  all  prove  abortive  ; — and  if  what  they  reckoned  a 
true  Republic,  would  find  most  friends,  or  foes,  in  the  new 
Convention. 

Orleans  men,  and  Reactionists,  were  rejoicing,  and  yet 
trembling  at  the  occasion  they  would  now  have  for  feeling  the 
pulse  of  this  National  patient,  and  for  tampering — as  they 
knew  so  well  how  to  do — with  its  political  prejudices. 

It  was  almost  a  day  of  fete  : — necromancers,  and  showmen, 
and  jugglers,  and  Sayoyard  organists,  were  scattered  all  over  the 
Champs  Elyssees.  The  banlieu  had  come  in  to  help  on  the  occa¬ 
sion.  Immense  throngs  lined  the  quays  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  Assembly  Large  bodies  of  troops— among  them  the  new 


Fourth  of  May.  157 

boy-soldiers  of  the  Garde  Mobile,  and  the  red-vested  Garde 
Republicaine — were  detailed  to  preserve  order. 

The  members  of  the  Government,  amid  shouts,  passed  on 
foot,  and  bare-headed,  across  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, — 
hemmed  by  lines  of  soldiers,  and  the  soldiers  were  lost  in  a 
throng  of  lookers  and  listeners. 

The  members  of  the  Assembly  are  scanned  eagerly  and 
fearfully.  The  white  Robespierre  lapels  of  not  a  few,  are 
noted — here,  with  a  smile — there,  with  a  stinging  jeu  d"1  esprit ; 
and  by  not  a  few  white-haired  mothers,  with  a  shudder,  or  a 
groan.  There  were  those  there  that  day  looking  on,  who  had 
seen  in  the  same  square, — under  orders  of  just  such  feted  repub¬ 
lic,  their  brothers,  and  fathers,  and  mothers  slain  ;  to  these, 
such  memento  of  that  black-shadowy  reign,  as  lapeled  coat, 
went  like  a  sword  to  the  heart.  The  stranger,  with  mind  full 
of  that  past — to  him  only  a  book-past — mused  wildly,  yet 
richly,  as  he  looked  around  upon  the  .-sea  of  heads,  earnest 
with  a  thousand  presages  of  the  future. 

- There  was  one  looker-on  that  day, — a  feeble  woman,  far 

gone  in  years,  and  clad  in  decent  Bourgeois  dress, — to  whom 
and  probably  to  whom  alone,  the  white  Robespierre  lapel  was 
a  sweet  souvenir, — a  souvenir  that  called  up  tears,  not  of 
terror,  but  of  regret.  She  was  the  daughter  of  that  artisan 
in  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  where  Robespierre  had  lived  ;  she 
had  tended  him  in  his  sickness  ;  she  had  cheered  him  in  his 
moments  of  dejection  ;  she  had  befriended  him  when  friends 
had  left  him  ;  she  had  bewailed  him  like  a  woman,  at  his  death. 

As  one,  or  another  of  the  passing  Representatives,  of  happy 


158 


The  Battle  Summer. 


reputation,  is  recognized,  the  name  rises  with  a  shout  and 
a  vivat  along  the  lines,  and  a  hoarse  huzza  of  blended  voices 
of  women  and  of  men  rolls  over  the  square,  and  the  bridge, 
and  dies  away  in  echoes  under  the  peri-style  of  the  Palace. 

The  tribunes  for  strangers  along  each  side  of  the  Hall  of 
Assemblage,  and  the  boxes  of  reporters  are  crowded  to  over¬ 
flowing.  Here  and  there  among  the  elevated  desks  at  the 
Left,  (now,  as  always  the  position  for  the  violent  ones,)  a 
group  of  one  or  two,  who  had  entered  early,  scan  intently  the 
coming  couples  of  members,  and  are  reckoning,  as  they  best 
can,  the  verdict  of  their  fate. 

Cries  of  Vive  la  Republique !  shake  the  crimson  hangings 
of  the  President’s  desk  ;  and  there  is  no  counter  cry.  But 
old  watchers  know  what  to  set  down  to  enthusiasm, — what 
to  policy,  and  what  to  word-catching  fever. 

- - -  Fine-looking  Barbes  with  black  beard,  and  sparkling 

black  eye,  stands  leaning  against  a  desk,  running  his  glance  over 
opposite  benches, — scowling  at  happy-faced  Rochejacquelin, 
and  stern  Barrot.  His  scowl  before  long,  will  be  sadly  earnest. 

A  gray-haired,  mild-faced  man  is  sitting  near  him,  on  those 
left  benches, — his  age  will  not  let  him  stand.  His  thoughtful 
forehead  rests  upon  his  finger.  The  blaze  of  life,  long  strong 
in  him,  is  growing  faint. 

Magnificent  ideas  have  wrought  themselves  into  words,  in 
that  brain  of  his,  that  have  gone  forth  wherever  French 
speech  is  known.  Magnificent  ideas  are  struggling  there 
still — a  tempestuous  struggle — to  end  in  broken  faith,  wild 
speculation,  an  irregular  love  of  humanity,  and  an  intense 


Fourth  of  May. 


159 


yearning  of  soul,  and  labor  of  such  body  as  is  left,  toward  the 
unattainable. 

It  is  the  Abbe  Lamennais, — a  lank  old  wolf  in  lamb’s  skin. 

Another  noticeable  man  is  near  them,  whose  interest  in  the 
events  of  the  day  appears  intense.  He  is  stout  as  a  smith  : 
his  arms  and-  stature  brawny  ;  his  face  round,  full,  and  bronze 
colored.  Heavy,  curling  hair  lies  tossed  carelessly  to  one 
side  of  his  head.  An  eye,  wearing  sinister  expression,  is 
looking  out  fixedly  from  under  a  heavy  brow.  A  thick  mous¬ 
tache  conceals  the  expression  on  his  lip,  and  adds  a  rueful 
cast  to  his  features. 

In  his  hand  he  holds,  half  triumphantly,  an  enormous 
steeple-crowned  hat,  the  like  of  which  you  may  see  upon  the 
police  agents  of  the  Prefect.  He  wears  red  sash  and  Robes¬ 
pierre  waistcoat 

If  this  man,  wnose  name  is  Caussidiere,  were  as  strong  of 
mind  as  of  body,  and  if  his  penetration  were  as  quick  as  his 
passions,  Reactionists  might  tremble. 

Nature  has  in  him  wonderfully  assimilated  soul  to  sense. 
You  would — knowing  the  Paris  world — look  for  just  such  face, 
form,  and  carriage  in  corner  wine-shop  of  city,  or  at  domino 
table  of  Provincial  Cafe. — He  possesses  those  mental  facul¬ 
ties  which  would  shine,  and  shine  only,  in  corner  wine-shop, 
or  at  table  of  Provincial  Cafe.  Blunt,  gross,  direct,  not 
without  a  rude,  uncultured  wit,  he  can  laugh,  joke,  smoke, 
declaim  together.  Boastful,  ignorant,  ambitious,  not  without  a 
afire  kindness,  and-an  intense  hate  of  tyranny,  he  watches  the 


160 


The  Battle  Summer. 


grouping  members  with  apprehension — looks  patronizingly  on 
bewildered  provincials, — feels  that  he  is  Prefect  of  Police. 

Another,  though  he  does  not  appear  to-day  in  Assem¬ 
bly,  will  soon  have  his  place  upon  the  Mountain  ;  and  his  por¬ 
trait  is  so  essential  to  the  group,  that  we  anticipate  his  coming. 

- With  shaggy,  disordered  hair,  half  hiding  his  face, 

and  tumbling  upon  the  collar  of  his  dirty,  dusty  palletot, 
Pierre  Leroux  squints  curiously  across  the  chamber,  with  a 
keen,  gray  eye. 

Under  his  thin  arm,  he  pinches  his  book — the  work  of  his 
soul,  and  that  soul  the  strangest ;  he  lives  in  a  world  of  ideas, 
and  those  ideas  the  wildest. 

He  preaches  association,  and  more  intimate  community  of 
mind  ;  yet  judging  from  his  dress  and  air,  you  would  say  that 
he  knew  nothing  of  Association,  and  nothing  of  Community. 
He  teaches  social  reorganization  in  close-writ  pages,  and  lives 
forever  in  his  pages.  His  Community  is  all  in  his  philosophy ; 
his  Socialism  all  in  his  reveries  ;  Jns  equality  all  in  his  dress  ;  his 
Democracy  all  in  his  thoughts,  and  his  speeches  all  in  his  books. 

Once  he  was  leagued  with  St.  Simonians — a  goocl  St.  Si- 
monian  he  must  have  made  ;  after  it,  and  now,  he  is  leagued 
with  Geo.  Sand, — a  bear  leashed  with  a  leopard  ! 

Yet  he  has  force,  penetration,  great  logical  acumen.  Not 
a  man  of  them  all  will  review  their  projected  constitution  with 
more  causticity,  and  astuteness  of  remark  ;  not  a  man  of 
them  all  is  less  fit  to  graft  upon  it — what  they  most  need — 
adaptation. 

The  sympathies  of  all  these,  and  of  a  vast  many  more, 


Fourth  of  May. 


161 


counting  Rollin,  and  Flocon,  and  Albert,  of  the  just  expiring 
Provisional  Power,  are  with  the  street  masses — are  with  the 
workmen,  against  the  Bourgeois. 

And  who  now  is  across  the  way  ? 

- That  graceful  figure,  still  youthful,  with  fair  hair,  and 

elegant  countenance,  is  not  surely  unused  to  public  Assembly  ; 
— he  seems  as  much  at  home  as  if  he  were  in  salon  of  St.  Ger¬ 
main.  Surely,  Montalembert — for  it  is  he — who  bore  the  name 
of  first  orator  at  the  Chamber  of  Peers,  will  bring  the  weight  of 
his  eloquence  to  the  side  of  Bourgeois  interest.  But  farther 
than  securing  patient  listeners  to  beautifully  turned,  and 
studied  periods — reflecting  grace  upon  the  Catholic  Church, 
and  pleading  coldly,  because  i  from  high  ground,  for  vested 
rights,  his  influence  with  Revolutionary  Chamber  will  not  be 
greaf 

Montalembert  is  an  orator,  a  gentleman,  and  a  bigot. 

That  fine  intellectual  countenance  near  by,  full  of  keenness 
and  passion,  just  wrinkled  with  approaching  age — for  ho 
touches  upon  sixty — but  firm,  full,  and  commanding,  belongs 
to  the  royalist  orator,  M.  Berrycr.  His  eloquent  voice  if  it 
be  heard  at  all,  will  surely  be  against  Ledru  Rollin  circulars  ; 
and  his  eloquent  voice  always  charms  whatever  audience  he 
addresses ;  hut  in  that  Assembly  the  voice  of  Berryer  will 
be  only  charming. 

- There  is  Rochejacquelin — you  would  know  him  from 

the  prints  ; — no  great  orator,  it  is  true,  but  in  salon,  and  corri¬ 
dor,  with  that  easy,  beneficent  smile  of  his,  and  that  captivat¬ 
ing  manner,  carrying  the  opinions  of  thousands. 


162 


The  Battle  Summer. 


Pages,  Cremieux,  Marie — sterling  Republicans  all  of  them 
— will  not,  with  all  their  Republicanism,  have  the  club 
sympathies  of  those  frowning  groups  at  the  Left. 

There  is  beside  these,  an  army  of  lesser  ones,  and  many  as 
great,  covering  all  the  benches  of  the  Right — stretching 
round  indeed,  and  mingling  with  the  Left,  and  joining  voices 
in  that  first  day’s  cry,  of —  VIVE  LA  REPUBLIQUE! 


II. 


The  Executive  Power, 

UCHEZ,  a  heavy-featured  man,  who  has  been  physician, 


.1  9  writer,  and  politician — not  without  merit,  ancW  emi¬ 
nence  in  each — is  named  first  President  of  the  Assembly. 

The  Provisional  rulers,  each  of  them  by  studied  speech,  give 
up  their  trust. 

A  new  Executive  of  Five  is  to  be  named.  Who  shall  they 
be  ?  Europe,  and  America  in  that  time,  would  have  said — 
first — Lamartine.  He  had  been  elected  by  ten  Departments  ; 
his  name  had  become  a  household  word.  Blessings  wore 
piously  called  down  upon  his  head,  in  the  farthest  hamlets  of 
France. 

Yet  the  first  will  not  be  Lamartine,  nor  the  second,  nor  the 
third.  For  Lamartine  has  said  that  he  will  not  accept  power, 
unless  associated  with  his  companions  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville  * 


*  11  Et  c'est  quand  nous  avons  ain&i  travailli  cn  commun ,  quund  nous  nous 
sommes  Sep  ares  plenis  de  confiance,  et  de  reconnaissances  pour  les  sacrifices 


The  Executive  Power.  163 

The  vote  is  taken  ;  Arago  is  first ;  Pages  second  ;  Marie 
third  ;  Lamartine  fourth  ;  Ledru  Rollin  fifth. 

How  is  it  that  the  man,  whom  the  world  is  looking  to  as 
the  chief  by  acclamation  and  popular  adoption,  of  the  new 
Republic,  is  only  fourth  fifth  of  the  new  Executive  ? 

It  was  plain  to  the  Assembly  that  Lamartine  was  desirous 
of  continuing  his  association  with  Ledru  Rollin  ;  and  it  was 
equally  plain  to  them  that  the  name  of  Ledru  Rollin,  while  it 
was  becoming  more  and  more  the  rallying  cry  of  those  un¬ 
quiet  spirits  at  the  Capital,  who  had  hitherto  sustained  Ex¬ 
ecutive  action,  only  as  an  earnest  of  nev  concession  to  strept 
clamor,  was  also  becoming  the  object  of  reproach,  and  disaf¬ 
fection  in  the  Provinces.  Ledru  Rollin,  moreover,  held 
popular  sympathy  to  a  degree  that  made  him  feared :  thei'e- 
fore  it  was,  that  the  desired  association,  on  the  part  of  Lamar¬ 
tine,  rendered  the  idol  of  the  Republic  an  object  of  sus¬ 
picion. 

So  it  was  with  those  ranking  with  Bourgeois. 

The  Left  party  were  not  without  suspicions  of  an  opposite 
nature.  Lamartine  had  refused  concurrence  in  the  issue  of 
the  famous  Sand  Bulletins  ;  he  had  deposed  the  red-flag  ;  he 
had  organized  a  Garde  Mobile  ;  he  had  ordered  the  rappel  to 
be  beaten  on  the  date  of  that  mammoth  assemblage  of  the 
workmen.  The  most  violent  of  the  Left  doubted  him  there¬ 
fore,  and  refused  him  their  votes.  For  the  Right,  he  sympa- 


ricipmques  rue  nous  nous  sommes  fails  dans  VinterSt  du  pays,  que  nous  serions 
riduits  a  at  : user  d  juger  des  coll'egves  et  des  amis  de  la  vtille.  C'est  un  rdle 
que  vous  ni  pouvee  nous  imposer.  ’  Moniteur.  Speech  of  Lamartine. 


164  The  Battle  .Summer. 

thized  too  much  with  the  late  Minister  of  the  Interior :  for 
the  Left, — not  enough. 

Thus  it  is  ever  that  the  speculative  statesman  finds  himself 
annoyed  and  circumvented  by  the  toils  which  his  own  independ¬ 
ence  creates  ;  while  the  practical  man  lays  down  a  definite, 
and  precise  course — humors  his  conscience — staves  off  his 
doubts,  and  is  sure  of  success.  Humanity,  eloquence,  and 
honesty  may  count  much  with  a  people-assemblage  actuated 
by  impulse,  or  affection,  or  sympathy  ;  but  these  are  qualities 
scarce  known  to  a  political  body. 

The  truth  is,  Lamartine  was  interested  by  all  that  he  held 
dear  to  sustain  the  Republic.  It  had  become  so  intimately 
associated  with  his  name  and  character,  that  he  regarded  any 
prospect  of  its  failure  with  a  feeling  akin  to  wounded  honor. 
He  knew  Rollin  to  possess  a  vast  influence  on  popular  action, 
in  the  Capital ;  he  further  knew  that  this  influence  was  di¬ 
rectly  and  powerfully  antagonistic  to  any  reactionary  dispo¬ 
sitions,  which  might  belong  to  the  new  Assembly,  or  to  a  new 
Executive.  He  desired  therefore  to  secure  this  strongest  of 
means  within  his  reach,  to  act  upon  the  popular  feeling,  in 
the  composition  of  the  Executive. 

He  also  knew  Ledru  Rollin  to  be  a  man  of  great  ambition, 
extreme  ardor,  and  sudden  impulse  ;  he  may  possibly  have 
feared  the  action  of  such  qualities,  if  unrestrained  by  direct 
association  with  the  new  Power. 

Absurd  stories  of  a  league  between  the  two  for  the  estab¬ 
lishment  of  a  red  Republic,  as  understood  by  such  as  Sobrier, 
were  bruited  in  the  British  papers  ;  and  equally  silly  rumors 


The  Executive  Power. 


165 


were  current  in  the  salons  of  the  Reactionnaires  at  Paris. 
Time  has  proved  that  they  were  both  idle  and  malicious. 

However  much  the  action  of  Lamartine  may  atfect  his 
reputation  for  political  sagacity,  it  certainly  does  no  discredit 
to  his  generosity ;  and  whatever  he  lost  by  it  as  a  statesman, 
he  will  add  by  it  to  the  ultimate  appreciation  of  his  character 
as  a  man. 

- And  now  the  National  Assembly  has  its  President  and 

Vice  Presidents.  The  nation  has  its  new-formed  Executive 
Power. 

The  work  to  be  done  is  to  consolidate  a  Republic,  by  giv¬ 
ing  a  constitution  to  the  people. 

Will  they  succeed  ?  And  if  so,  which  way  is  success  to 
turn  ?  Will  it  be  with  those,  who  for  eighteen  years  have 
conspired  for  this  issue  ;  who  have  suffered  prison  and  exile  ; 
whose  loudest  voices  are  marshalled  on  the  benches  of  the 
Left ;  whose  hands  arc  yet  hard  with  the  stones  of  the  barri¬ 
cades  ? — or  will  it  be  with  those — more  numerous  in  the  As¬ 
sembly — who  half  suspect  a  Republic  impossible,  while  they 
cry  loud  as  any — Long  live  the  Executive  Power  ? 

Will  Blouse  rule,  or  will  Bourgeois  ? 


166 


The  Battle  Summer. 


III. 

Foreign  E 


vents. 


BUT  while  we  have  followed  the  world  as  it  has  worked 
in  that  strange,  fluctuating  Paris  Capital — mind  and 
passion,  and  hope  and  effort  have  had  their  seasons  without. 
In  places  they  have  been — one  or  the  other  of  them — bloody  ; 
in  others,  quiet ;  and  in  all,  they  have  had  some  measure  of 
success. 

Beautiful  Lombard  Milan  has  driven  out  an  Austrian  army, 
and  is  itself  in  some  sort,  a  sister  Republic  with  Provisional 
Government ;  and  provisional  schemes  for  defence,  and  money¬ 
raising  ;  and  provisional  flag — alas,  only  provisional ! — waving 
against  its  violet  sky,  from  the  top  of  its  marvellous 
Duomo. 

Germany — meaning  all  that  land  which  dreams  of  German 
union,  from  Aix  la  Chapelle  of  Prussia  to  Turkish  Transyl¬ 
vania,  and  from  Dalmatian  shore  to  northernmost  Baltic  town 
of  Wurtemberg — is  astir,  making  parliaments  and  speeches. 
Kings  arc  promising  constitutions,  and  murdering  street- 
crowds  ;  Metternich  is  flying  ;  Louis  of  Bavaria  is  leaving 
dancing  Montes  and  throne  together. 

Little  harmless  Neufchatel  is  shaking  off  the  last  lien  that 
held  her  to  Prussian  province ;  and  on  the  strength  of  it — a 


Foreign  Events. 


167 


faint  cause,  for  the  lien  was  only  nominal — is  setting  out  vain 
trees  of  liberty. 

Venice  too,  has  a  little  of  the  Dandolo  feeling  stirred,  and 
has  driven  away  Austrian  governor,  kind  though  he  was ;  and 
is  now  once  more  the  little  island  Republic,  queening  it  in  the 
water  streets,  and  wedding  again  in  black  workingman’s  gon¬ 
dola — for  the  blazing  barge  is  burnt — her  lost  Adriatic. 

Rome,  with  its  liberalizing  Pope,  is  thinking  whither  Pope¬ 
dom  is  tending  ;  her  Transteveri,  and  men  of  Piazzo  Navona, 
and  low  streets  girting  the  Pantheon,  are  by  turns,  menacing, 
praising,  quarrelling. 

Naples  is  making  bloody  street-work,  and  preparing  in  her 
island  of  Sicily  for  bloodier  matters  still.  Sicilians  are  made 
bold  by  Paris  action,  to  claim  a  fuller  representation,  and 
wider  privilege  ;  and  the  King  yields,  with  just  enough  of 
ugly  hesitance  to  make  them  clamorous  for  more.  Discon¬ 
tent  crosses  over  from  sunny  Messina — a  wind-borne  epidemic 
— and  rages  on  the  long  Via  Toledo.  Half  naked  lazzaroni 
shout  for  the  King,  and  pillage  Bourgeois  houses.  Paris 
Italians,  in  their  smoky  Cafe  de  France,  there  behind  the 
Palais  Royal  are  all  on  fire.  Old  renegades — not  all  of  them 
political  offenders — play  at  Briscola  for  strong  coffee,  and  talk 
sans-culottism. 

Vienna,  the  princely  refuge  of  Feudalism  is  disturbed;  the 
Emperor  is  called  back  from  Inspruck,  by  a  people  whose  call 
has  now  become — for  ever  so  little  time — command. 

Hungary,  easily  achieving  Reforms,  for  which  she  had  long 
sued  in  vain,  is  joyous  and  for  a  time  is  loudest  applaudcr  of 


16S 


The  Battle  Summer. 


Austrian  Emperor,  who  is  also  Hungarian  king.  But  Impe¬ 
rial  success  at  home  is  fated  to  bring  down  revocation  of 
the  Reforms  that  have  been  granted  ;  and  that  revocation  is 
to  bo  the  source  of  a  conflict — a  rebellion  if  you  please — 
whose  issues  will  be  long  shrouded  in  darkness,  and  colored 
with  blood. 

While  all  this,  coming  in  by  courier,  and  ministerial  tele¬ 
graph,  is  spread  over  Paris  by  the  hundred  hnsyfeuillctons  of 
the  day,  and  is  exciting  talk,  not  only  in  cafe  and  street,  but 
in  salon,  and  provisional  cabinet, — that  poor  fragment  of  a 
nation,  once  called  Poland,  so  much  of  it,  at  least,  as  shrinks 
about  the  cheap  restaurants,  and  hospitable  salons  of  Paris,  is 
seeking  to  stir  up  popular  sympathy,  and  erect  again  its  eido¬ 
lon  of  a  national  integrity. 

Tall,  melancholy-looking  figures  in  thread-bare  black,  so 
long  the  bug-bears  of  popular  charity,  and  the  foci  of  love- 
dreams  to  sentimental  girls,  are  become  on  a  sudden,  petition¬ 
ers  for  a  kingdom. 

Nor  were  their  hopes,  at  first  sight,  altogether  vain.  The 
Duchy  of  Posen,  Polish  in  blood,  and  in  sympathy,  had  be¬ 
come  by  the  changes  in  Prussian  sway,  competent  to  give 
force,  as  well  as  utterance  to  its  inclinations.  Gallicia  in  the 
South,  had  at  present  little  to  fear  from  the  emasculated  court 
of  Vienna,  and  might  have  lent  a  strong  hand — far  stronger 
than  that  of  Polish  plotters  at  Paris — for  the  redemption  of 
Polish  nationality. 

Moreover,  the  ever  exciteable  French  mind,  was  just  now 
travailing  in  one  of  those  accessions  of  enthusiasm,  which 


Foreign  Events. 


169 


made  it  susceptible  to  slightest  impulse — most  of  all  such  im¬ 
pulse  as  accorded  with  the  tendency  of  Revolution. 

La  Pologne  called  up  to  the  inflamed  popular  mind,  a  world 
of  tender  memories,  and  terrific  visions  of  vengeance.  It  was 
a  bleeding  trophy  of  united  Kingship — of  which,  Kingship  must 
be  despoiled.  Not  another  national  name  in  Europe  could 
excite  with  such  force,  hatred  of  monarch-tyranny.  The 
street-shout  for  Poland,  was  a  sort  of  proud,  and  high  bra¬ 
vado  against  Thrones.  It  was  the  vaunt  of  Freedom,  in  the 
face  of  Monarchy  ! 

Nor  were  there  wanting  supporters  to  this  new-sprung  feel¬ 
ing,  other  than  mere  enthusiasts.  Wolowski,  a  member  of  the 
Chamber,  was  a  Pole  by  birth  ; — a  man  of  strong  capacity, 
and  well-balanced  mind.  He  had  been  lecturer  at  the  Sor- 
bonne,  and  had  been  vigorous  opponent  of  many,  if  not  most, 
of  tho  new  social  schemes.  He  united  with  him  in  opinion, 
very  many,  not  only  of  his  own  countrymen  but  of  moderate 
French  minds,  who  had  confidence  in  his  discretion,  and 
abilities.  The  warmest  of  the  Red  Republicans,  and  Club¬ 
men  joined  in  the  uproar  for  Poland  ; — with  some,  it  was  the 
result  of  an  honest,  and  uncontrollable  enthusiasm ;  with 
others  it  sprung  from  a  deeper  and  less  worthy  purpose. 

It  seemed  the  best  of  cries  with  which  to  6tart  again  Paris 
pavements.  The  Executive  Power  was  known  to  be  averse 
to  rupture  with  either  of  the  triad  powers,  which  possessed 
Poland  ;  a  war-cry,  therefore,  if  general  enough,  would  upset 
the  Ministry,  and  the  club-men  had  arranged,  in  such  event, 
their  own  accession. 

8 


170 


T  IT  E  B,A  TTLE  SUMMER. 


In  this  temper,  and  in  these  views,  the  famous  petition  for 
Poland  was  set  on  foot. 

There  were  thousands  of  eager  signers  ; — some  impelled  by 
a  reckless  love  of  a  lost  home-land  ; — some  actuated  by  a 
misguided  enthusiasm  for  whatever  felt  the  odium  of  King- 
rule.  Others,  and  these  fewest  of  all,  recognized  the  policy 
of  war  in  behalf  of  Poland,  as  judicious,  and  as  tending  ulti¬ 
mately  to  secure  on  firmer  basis,  Continental  Republicanism. 

On  Monday  the  fifteenth  of  May,  the  petition  was  to  he 
presented  to  the  Assembly,  and  its  demands  to  be  discussed. 

That  fifteenth  of  May  was  to  be  an  epoch,  not  so  much 
in  Polish  History,  as  in  French  History ;  it  was  to  make  po¬ 
litical  martyrs — not  so  much  of  Polish  lovers  of  their  country, 
as  of  French  lovers  of  themselves. 


IV. 


May  Fifteenth. 


THE  day  had  been  intended  for  Fete  day ;  but  a  white 
placard  of  Saturday  night,  and  the  Moniteur  of  Sunday 
morning  has  put  off  the  Fete  to  the  following  Sabbath.  If  it 
had  been  Fete,  it  would  not  have  been,  perhaps,  so  near  re¬ 
bellion.  It  is  dangerous  to  adjourn  French  Fetes:  it  is 
dangerous  to  change  the  hour  of  giving  butcher-meat  to  the 
lions ! 

Sunday  night,  in  Paris  world  is  a  great  club-night,  and  s 


May  Fifteenth. 


171 


great  dance-night.  Effervescence  is  at  its  highest ;  and  the 
effervescence  works  up  into  rash  decisions,  oftentimes,  for  the 
morrow.  It  is  so  with  grisette  lovers  ;  and  it  is  so  with 
Polish  lovers. 

A  demonstration  is  determined  on  for  the  following  day. 
The  petition  shall  be  borne  to  the  People’s  Chamber,  by  none 
other  than  the  hands  of  the  People. 

Polish  costumes  have  made  their  appearance  at  Chaumiere , 
and  at  Mobil ,  and  have  won  the  first  *favors  of  broidering 
girls  in  waltz  and  polka,  until  eleven  at  night.  Polish  ban¬ 
ners  have  been  floating  on  the  tribunes  of  the  clubs,  and  on 
the  tribunes  of  dance-orchestra. 

In  the  morning  a  great  crowd  is  gathered  about  the  column 
of  Bastile.  There  are  flags  bearing  Club  names, — such  as 
Jacobin  Club  ;  Droits  de  P Homme  ;  Droit  des  Femmes  ;  and 
there  are  flags  of  Poland  and  of  Italy. 

Thousands  march  down  the  long  range  of  Boulevard,  not 
armed,  except  with  hard-shouted  Marseillaise,  and  May  fer¬ 
vor,  and  not  wearing  other  uniform  than  blouses, — intermin¬ 
gled  here  and  there  with  thread-bare  citizen’s  coat,  and  blue 
redingote  of  National  Guard. 

The  shop-keepers  look  on  and  listen  ;  scarce  knowing  what 
to  think.  Shall  they  join,  or  shall  they  oppose  it  ?  They 
have  no  disposition  to  join,  and  they  dare  not  oppose.  They 
slink  within  their  shop  doors,  saying — Mon  Dieu !  quand 
passera-t-il  tout  cela  1 - when,  indeed  ? 

But  the  crowd,  gay,  insouciant , — grisettes  not  forbearing  to 
add  their  quavering  sopranos  to  go  ira  chorus, — pushes  on  to 


172 


The  Battle  Summer. 


tlie  Place  of  the  Madaleine,  and  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde. 
They  number  now  not  less  than  fifteen  thousand. 

A  little  detachment  of  the  new-raised,  half-equipped  Garde 
Mobile  is  upon  the  bridge,  flanked  by  a  corps  of  the  Line  ; 
but  their  bayonets  are  hanging  at  their  belts,  and  their  ranks 
open  to  the  leaders  of  the  company. 

Then  the  shouting  of — Vive  la  Pologne — is  ten-fold  louder, 
and  makes  itself  heard  even  to  the  farthest  benches  of  that 
people’s  chamber,  which  in  the  Court  of  the  Palace  is  legis¬ 
lating  for  the  howling  people  without. 


V 


Blouse  Overturns  Bourgeois. 

HAT  People-Chamber  is  not  unattended.  Louis  Blanc, 


I  shivering — though  it  is  warm  May-time — on  benches  of 
the  Right,  has  been  told4"  by  Barbes  and  Blanqui,  in  confi¬ 
dence,  at  a  certain  Cafe  upon  the  Boulevard,  that  things  were 
approaching  this  ;  and  he  has  advised  them  to  restrain  then- 
friends  ;  perhaps  honestly  enough  ;  God  forbid  that  we  should 
judge  harshly  the  pining  exile  ! 

Barbes  too,  knows  what  the  cry  means,  and  his  eye  flashes 
fire. 

A  little  unimportant  business  has  been  despatched  by  the 


Appel  aux  Honnetes  Gens,  and  Proces  des  Accuses  du  15  Mai. 


Blouse  Overturns  Bourgeois.  173 

Assembly ; — with  the  rest,  a  letter  of  resignation  from  the  old 
poet  Beranger,  has  bean  read,  and  the  resignation  accepted. 

Quicker  work  than  plaintive  Beranger  letter  is  coming. 

Wolowski  holds  the  tribune  :  in  his  hand  a  petition  for  Po¬ 
land  ;  and  on  his  tongue  very  eloquent  apostrophes  to  sympa¬ 
thizing  France.  But  all  his  eloquent  apostrophes  are  drowned 
in  that  thunder  of  clamor,  which  is  coming  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  Palace. 

A  questeur  of  the  Assembly  urges  his  way  to  the  seat  of  the 
President.  The  orders  given  for  the  defence  of  the  Assem¬ 
bly, — he  says — have  been  countermanded  by  the  chief  of  the 
National  Guard.  Even  as  he  speaks,  the  doors  of  the 
stranger  galleries  are  broken  open — a  clamorous  company  rush 
in,  and  a  broad  banner  of  Polish  colors  waves  over  Represen¬ 
tative  benches  below. 

Half  start  from  their  seats.  The  President  rings,  too 
vainly,  that  little  tribune  bell. 

Citizen  Clement  Thomas,  of  the  National  Workshop,  has 
begun  from  the  desk  a  violent  harangue.  Citizen  Marechal 
interrupts  him  with  the  cry  that  all  deliberation  is  vain. 

Meantime,  the  bearded  Barbes  quits  his  seat,  and  pushes 
toward  the  speaker’s  tribune.  Timid  Louis  Blanc  changes  his 
place,  and  toils  up  toward  the  high  benches  of  the  Left. 

The  street-throng  crowds  up,  and  fills  all  outer  courts  of 
the  Assembly.  New  banners,  written  over  with  Club  devices, 
are  appearing  from  moment  to  moment,  swung  by  brawny 
bare  arms,  over  the  edges  of  spectators’  balcony.  The  cries 


174  The  Battle  Summer. 

that  attend  this  action  are  noisy  and  loud  ;  and  the  protesta¬ 
tions  from  below  angrier  and  angrier. 

The  ladies,  such  few  as  fill  the  front  seats  of  gallery-tri¬ 
bunes,  tremble,  and  cry  out  with  fright,  as  the  muskets  now 
come  gleaming  in  at  each  avenue  and  through  all  the  corri¬ 
dors. 

And  soon,  dropping  down  from  edge  of  balcony,  these  mus- 
kettcd  intruders  stand  upon  the  sacred  floor  of  the  People’s 
Hall,  where  the  people  have  delegated — how  vainly  ! — their 
sacred  Constitution-makers.  They  press  upon  liuissiers  who 
wear  vainly,  people’s  uniform  of  shoulder  trinket,  and  fencing 
sword,  and  open  the  main  doors  to  their  shouting  brotherhood, 
who  grow  impatient,  and  thunder  threateningly. 

The  President  jingles  again  that  feeble  bell ;  he  puts  on  his 
hat.  Members  shriek  protests.  A  great,  new  company  of 
Clubbists  enters,  at  whose  head  is  Sobrier,  famous  at  Palais  de 
Justice,  and  conspirator  Blanqui,  and  a  white-haired  chemist 
• — Rasp  ail. 

Little  Louis  Blanc  ventures  a  word — a  demurrer  for  si¬ 
lence  ;  and  the  new-come  crowd  give  him — Bravo  ! — even  as 
Raspail  mounts  the  tribune. 

The  white  hair  and  tall  figure  of  the  chemist  loom  over  the 
pigmy  philosopher  of  labor  ;  and  his  voice  full  of  power  and 
richness  drowns  the  boy-tones  of  the  Luxembourg  orator. 

- Now  indeed  is  the  people  in  power  again  ;  the  streets 

mass  has  usurped  the  place  of  Representatives.  A  new  man 
helps  the  President  at  his  bell  ;  helps  the  huissiers  at  their 
shouts  of — Silence  ! — utterly  in  vain. 


Blouse  Overturns  Bourgeois.  175 

A  howl  of  protests  goes  up  from  Representative  seats  ;  a 
howl  of  angry  answer  from  street-people,  says — a  la  porte  ! 

Raspail  begins,  in  the  name — he  says — of  two  hundred 
thousand  of  his  countrymen,  to  ask  relief  for  Poland  ;  and 
he  reduces  all  to  three  propositions  :  First,  that  the  cause  of 
Poland  be  merged  in  that  of  France  :  Second,  that  a  resto¬ 
ration  of  Polish  nationality  be  effected  either  by  peaceful 
means  or  by  arms :  Third,  that  a  division  of  the  army  be  held 
in  readiness  for  instant  march,  on  a  refusal  of  the  conditions 
offered  by  France. 

—  And — concluded  he,  in  a  voice  that  rose  over  shouts, 
and  hisses,  and  curses, — so  will  justice  triumph,  and  Heaven 
will  bless  our  arms  ! 

—  Vive  la  Pologne ! — and  then  follows  a  call  for  Blanqui. 

A  voice  says — no  deliberation  can  be  had,  while  the  cham¬ 
ber  is  thus  over-run.  A  voice  answers — it  can  and  must. 

—  A  decree  !  a  decree  ! — shout  the  people. 

Blanqui,  meantime,  with  that  haggard,  eager  face  of  his 
has  pushed  his  way  into  the  tribune.  But  as  yet,  he  is  quar¬ 
relling  with  the  half  dozen  earnest  ones  who  hold  it  in  ad¬ 
vance. 

Barbes  says — the  petition  has  been  read  :  the  Assembly 
has  now  only  to  decree  what  the  people  so  imperatively  do- 
mand  ;  and  in  order  that  legislative  action  may  seem*  to  be 
free,  let  now  the  magnanimous  people  retire. 

*  — li  Mais  pour  qu'ellc  ne  semble  pas  violenlee  il  faut  quo  vous  vous  retiriez 
— Mcnitcur.  Speech  of  Barb&s. 


176 


The  Battle  Summer 


There  are  angry  cries  of — no,  no — and  a  stentor  voice 
making  the  tribunes  shake,  says — Blanqui  must  he  heard  ! 

- And  now  it  is  Blanqui  who  begins. 

Vain  are  all  Presidents’  bells,  vain  are  all  Representative 
protests,  against  the  voice  of  the  man  who  yet  wears  the  dun¬ 
geon  damp  upon  his  clear,  pale  forehead.  Not  only  Poland, 
but  suffering  workmen  are  of  his  client  die. — We  ask  bread  for 
suffering  citizens ;  we  ask  recognition  of  those  rights  pro¬ 
claimed  in  February — says  he. 

The  tumult  at  length  gains  upon  the  failing  voice  of  Blan¬ 
qui,  and  the  burly  head  of  Ledru  Rollin  shows  itself  strug¬ 
gling  amid  the  banners  that  shade  the  speaker’s  tribune. 

But  the  prestige  of  the  Rollin  circulars  is  gone  ;  the  stormy 
Republican  has  become  a  part  of  a  government,  which  advance 
Clubs  do  not  recognize.  They  throw  in  his  teeth  that  Minis¬ 
try  of  Labor  which  he  had  promised.  Vain  is  all  his  artist 
flattery  ;  Cet  admirable  bon  sens  du  pcuple — the  good  sense 
of  the  people,  is  tired  of  his  praises  ;  they  had  grown  stale  in 
placard,  and  manifest ;  and  more  stale  still  in  the  heat  of  this 
Polish  fever. 

Rollin  is  silenced  ;  his  round  head  goes  down  in  the  sea  of 
sehakos,  and  white  beards  that  toss  around  desk  of  tribune  and 
of  speaker. 

A  stout  Captain  of  Artillery,  fit  to  sit  for  picture  of  mur¬ 
dered  Marat,  leaps  the  railing,  and  with  his  hand  upon  his 
sword,  takes  position  beside  the  President  Buchez. 

Barbes  again  in  the  wild  uproar,  reiterates  new  and 
stronger  demands.  He  floats  with  the  tide ;  who  knows 


Blouse  Overturns  Bourgeois 


177 


where  French  popular  current  will  bear  a  man? — possibly  to 
empire  ; — may  be,  to  Vincennes  ! — who  in  that  hour  could 
tell  ?  Who  could  have  told  in  February  ? 

He  demands — and  the  shouts  of  those  Polish-mad  thou¬ 
sands  sustain  him — the  instant  expedition  of  an  army  to  Po¬ 
land  ;  the  dismissal  of  all  troops  from  Paris ;  the  levy  of  ten 
millions  on  the  rich  ; — and  the  applauding  huzzas  are  like 
the  voice  of  a  nation. 

Who  would  not  be  lit  up  by  such  thunder  of  enthusiasm  ? 
Barbes  had  promised  Louis  Blanc,  only  the  day  before,  that 
he  would  discourage  the  movement :  but  Barbes  in  Louis 
Blanc’s  room  of  the  Rue  des  Beaux  Arts,  and  Barbes  stimu¬ 
lated  by  those  monster  shouts,  were  different  men. 

And  was  this  not  as  real — as  virtual,  a  Revolution,  to  all 
appearance,  as  that  of  February  ?  Was  it  not  an  advance 
upon  the  times  of  Government  Provisional  ? 

The  palace  was  full  of  earnest,  enthusiastic  men  ;  and  these 
but  the  leaders  of  an  immense  host  which  covered  the  whole 
Place  de  la  Concorde.  They  came  in  behalf  of  suffering,  half- 
starved  workmen,  and  in  behalf  of  that  unfortunate  nation, 
whose  very  name  had  been,  for  thirty  years,  the  touch-stone 
of  popular  sympathy. 

True,  they  came  to  violate  an  Assembly,  to  which  they 
themselves  had  delegated  full  powers ;  but  could  not  they 
who  had  made — unmake  ? 

It  was  to  be  sure  sowing  R  evolutions  rather  thickly ;  yet 
who  was  to  be  the  umpire,  as  to  whether  this  new  working¬ 
man’s,  extemporaneous  revolution,  was  needed  ?  Who  but 

S* 


178  The  Battle  Summer. 

the  people—  with  their  admirable  good  sense  ?  And  just  now 
the  admirable  good  sense  of  Paris  people,  was  leading  matters 
its  own  way. 

The  next  step  is  to  defile  before  the  Chamber  ;  to  show,  as 
Huber  said,  that  two  hundred  thousand  men  with  arms, 
mean  that  this  Polish,  and  working-man’s  matter  shall  be 
brought  to  issue. 

- It  is  now  near  three  o’clock  ; — there  is  a  faint  sound 

heard,  as  if  drums  were  beating  in  the  city.  Quick  ear's  know 
it  is  the  rappel  to  summon  the  National  Guard.  Ah,  there 
then  is  a  body  of  the  ‘  people’  gathering — of  Bourgeois  people, 
which  neither  Blanc,  nor  Blanqui  have  counted  on  ! 

Barbes  leaps  back  like  a  tiger  to  the  tribune,  thrusting  his 
way  through  the  beleaguring  masses. 

- Traitors — says  he — have  ordered  the  beating  of  the 

rappel :  I  demand  that  counter  orders  be  given. 

Barbes  must  have  a  strong  suspicion  that  those  other 
people  gathering  to  the  drum-beat,  will  not  be  altogether 
Polish-people,  nor  yet  people  who  will  vote  the  ten  million 
levy.  It  would  be  very  odd  if  they  were,  friend  Barbes. 

A  Questeur  whispers  in  the  ear  of  the  President, — hold  on 
fifteen  minutes,  and  you  are  safe  ;  the  Guard  is  coming. 

But  fifteen  minutes  is  long  enough  in  France  to  make  a 
Government, — or  to  destroy  one. 

Louder,  and  louder  comes  the  cry  from  the  threatening 
house  for  counter-orders 

Buchez  trembles ;  ten  minutes  have  hardly  gone  ;  the 


Blouse  Overturns  Bourgeois.  179 

Questeur  looks  at  his  watch,  and  whispers  again, — Give  tho 
counter  orders  ;  they  will  have  no  effect. 

The  President  writes ;  the  fierce  Captain  of  the  Guard 
glances  his  eye  over  it,  and  chuckles  ;  and  throws  it  down  to 
his  confederates  below. 

Meantime  little  Louis  Blane,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  hour 
is  caught  up  on  the  shoulders  of  four  stout  blouses,  and  goes 
careering,  and  panting  over  the  heads  of  pushing  and  shout¬ 
ing  crowd.  They  set  him  upon  a  table,  and  call  upon  him  to 
speak  ;  but  the  noise  drowns  his  voice. 

The  upper  tribunes  nearly  overrun,  tremble  with  'the  im¬ 
mense  weight ; — the  canvas  paintings  quiver  ; — the  timbers 
crack ; — a  moment’s  consternation  prevails  ;  but  Paris  artisans, 
in  that  month  of  work  on  Palace,  have  done  their  work  well. 

The  flag  of  Jacobin  Club  draped  in  crape,  is  flung  out  by 
some  sudden  hand  over  the  upper  benches.  Louis  Blanc 
seated  again,  is  working  with  pen,  and  brain,  crowded  around 
by  dozens  of  stalwart  workmen. 

Huber  is  at  the  tribune  ; — The  Chamber — says  he — is  dis¬ 
solved  ! 

A  white  butcher’s  cleaver  shines  over  the  head  of  the  Pres¬ 
ident.  Threatening,  clenched  fists  are  advanced  toward  him. 
A  group  of  armed  men  rush  on  him,  and  hurl  him  from  his 
chair.  The  President,  Buchez,  who  had  written  in  his  day 
rich  socialism, — not  rich  enough  to  guard  him  now, — struggles 
out  through  the  crowd,  and  the  National  Assembly,  only  ten 
days  old,  is  virtually  at  an  end. 

—  Long  live  Barbes  ! — saj-  the  men  in  the  galleries  ;  and 


ISO 


Tii  e  B  a  t  t  l  e  Summer. 


Barbes  vainly  struggling  is  borne  about  on  four  stout  shoul¬ 
ders,  bis  black-bearded  face  reeling  from  side  to  side. 

A  voice  from  the  tribune  declares  the  new  Government ; — 
Barbes; — Louis  Blanc; — Ledru  Rollin  ; — Blanqui ; — Hu¬ 
ber  ; — Raspail ; — Caussidiere  ; — Etienne  Arago  ; — Albert ; — 
Lagrange. 

O  ©  , 

Another  bloused,  red-sashed  Club-man,  makes  his  voice 
heard,  with  other  list : — Cabet ; — Louis  Blanc  ; — Leroux  ; — ■ 
Raspail ; — Considerant ; — Barbes  ; — Blanqui; — Prudhon. 

- No  matter  which  ; — there  is  no  time  for  talk. 

A  V Hotel  de  Ville ! — for  the  Guard  is  coming. 


VI. 


Bourgeois  Oterturnsi  Blouse. 

RUE  enough,  the  Guard  is  ooming.  The  drums  ten 


_iL  minutes  ago  so  far  away,  are  now  sounding  threateningly 
in  the  outer  courts  of  the  Palace. 

—  Void  le  Garde — exclaim  a  half  dozen  at  the  central 
door  ;  and  their  heavy,  regular  tramp  is  presently  heard  in 
the  corridors.  Array  now  through  all  approachable  windows, 
and  upper  doors  hurry  our  magnanimous  new  Assembly,  and 
Club-men,  and  Government.  Louis  Blanc  breathless  is  borne 
ofF  his  legs,  and  twists,  and  writhes,  and  struggles  in  the 
crowd ; — nor  finds  himself  safe  upon  his  feet,  until  he  is  far 
out  of  the  Assembly  hall,  upon  the  quay. 


Bourgeois  Overturns  Blouse.  181 

The  Bourgeois  Guard  lias  retaken  the  Chamber ;  Buchez 
has  entered  again  ;  again — the  storm  passed — the  bell  is  heard 
in  the  furthermost  tribune. 

Courtais,  who  had  given  the  order  to  strike  bayonets,  en¬ 
ters  in  uniform,  cheered  with — Down  with  Courtais  ! — and  the 
maddened  Guard  rush  upon  him,  as  if  they  would  do  murder 
even  in  the  Assembly  Chamber. 

Down  with  Courtais,  it  is ;  his  office  is  given  to  sprightly 
Clement  Thomas ;  Courtais  goes  away  to  dungeon  of  Vin¬ 
cennes  ; — his  regimentals  cast  aside  ; — his  sword  broken  ; — his 
epaulettes  torn  off ; — his  high  Republicanism  come  to  naught. 
We  shall  meet  him  again,  at  the  old  city  of  Bourges,  paled 
with  long  months  of  prison-hood. 

Out  of  doors,  news  has  run  like  wild  fire  ; — that  the  As¬ 
sembly  is  dissolved,  and  a  new  power  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 

So  at  first  it  would  seem  :  a  little  while  more,  and  deputa¬ 
tions  perhaps  will  be  taking  up  their  march  to  give  in  adhe¬ 
sion  to  the  new  Provisional  Power,  and  to  chant  anthems  to 
the  glory  of  this  glorious  Paris  people. 

- But  if  done,  it  must  be  done  quickly ;  for  this  Bour¬ 
geois  National  Guard  that  has  been  gathering  to  beat  of  drum, 
has  encircled  the  Chamber,  and  is  moving  off  in  a  stout 
column  in  the  direction  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 

Barbes  meantime  is  leading  off  a  motley  host  of  students, 
and  Polish  refugees,  by  circuitous  streets,  and  will  arrive  at 
the  Hotel  two  houn  at  least  before  the  National  Guard. 
Here  and  there  he  has  been  joined  by  squads  of  club-men 
with  banners,  and  here  and  there  been  frightened  by  show  of 


1S2 


The  Battle  Summer. 


soldiers ;  but,  lie  thinks,  once  at  the  Palace  of  the  city,  and 
all  the  working  army  of  Paris  will  sustain  him.  A  levy  of 
ten  millions  on  the  rich  is  certainly  a  bright  lure — a  good 
bounty  money  to  make  Barbes  soldiers  ! 

The  Guard  at  the  Palace  gates  fall  back,  fraternizing  as 
they  had  done  in  February  ;  the  Chief  Secretary  at  his  desk, 
may  well  wonder  when  this  fraternizing  is  to  end  !  A  sub¬ 
official  startled  from  his  bureau,  by  the  uproar,  passes  out 
into  the  corridor,  wondering  what  it  all  may  mean  ;  he  is  met 
by  a  couple  of  stout,  black-bearded  men,  followed  by  a  dozen 
others,  who  ask  for  a  quiet  Cabinet  where  they  can  draw  up 
proclamations.* 

—  Proclamations  ! — says  the  sub-official  with  a  stare. 

—  Ay,  mon  homme — my  good  man,  the  Chamber  is  dis¬ 
solved, — we  are  the  Government ;  show  us  a  salon  ! 

And  the  sub-official  who  trimmed  his  pen  only  that  morning 
under  reign  of  Assembly,  and  Executive  power,  now  finds 
himself  unlocking  doors  to  Barbes  and  Albert.  They  surely 
have  a  pleasant,  Parisian  way  of  changing  matters  of  State  ! 

And  now  Barbes  is  upon  the  table  reading  to  the  crowds 
that  have  rushed  eagerly  up  the  stairways,  the  names  of  the 
new  Power ;  and  soon  again,  Barbes  is  at  a  table  penning 
proclamations,  and  a  new  orator  is  declaiming  a  new  list.  For 
not  even  among  the  captors  of  this  city  palace  is  there  concord ; 
- — so  strange  a  thing  is  human  pride,  and  so  strange  human  jeal¬ 
ousy  !  The  name  of  Blanqui  is  associated  with  that  of  Barbes. 


*  Vroces  des  Jlc.cu$6s  du  15  Mai.  Paris,  1849. 


Bourgeois  Overturns  Blouse.  183 

Barbes  reappears  and  leaps  upon  the  table  ; — Messieurs — says 
he — choose  between  us ;  I  can  never  so*ve  with  Blanqui. 

Blanqui  is  not  there  to  defend  himself,  in  the  new  parlia¬ 
ment  ;  but  he  is  slinking  through  the  narrow  streets  by  the 
Marche  des  Innocens,  seeking  to  hide  that  pale,  prison  face 
of  his  from  pursuit. 

Barbes’  philippic  is  interrupted  by  a  noise  upon  the  Square 
below ; — again  that  terrible  Guard  is  coming  !  and  Barbes 
has  after  all  but  very  few  work-people  to  defend  him. 

From  the  windows  you  may  see  the  approaching  columns 
as  they  cross  the  bridge,  and  defile  along  the  quay  :  the  after¬ 
noon  sun  is  slanting  over  glittering  bayonets,  and  stretches  the 
shadow  of  the  masses  half  across  the  Square. — Among  the 
foremost  you  catch  sight  of  the  old  hero  of  Revolution,  La¬ 
martine, — tall,  and  stately — his  gray-head  bowing  here  and 
there  ;  a  little  company  of  shouting  men  push  their  way  beside 
him,  and  open,  with  those  huzzas  of  his  name,  a  clear  pathway 
to  the  Palace  gate.  Lamartine  fatigued  with  that  hard  May 
walk,  and  with  the  jostlings  of  the  crowd,  grows  faint ;  he 
leans  upon  the  arms  of  two  men  of  the  people. 

- Now  he  is  strong  again,  and  urges  his  way  up  to  the 

old  throne-room.  He  gathers  breath  to  speak.  Barbes  has  re¬ 
tired  to  private  Cabinet,  with  his  new  associates,  and  is  mak¬ 
ing  proclamations.  But  in  outer  room,  Lamartine’s  words  are 
crushing  the  proclamations. 

Battalion  after  battalion  is  coming  up  ;  the  whole  Place 
is  hemmed  in  by  bristling  bayonets.  Gradually  the  soldier 
mass  draws  up  to  the  foot  of  the  Palace  ; — it  flows  in  and  up. 


184 


The  Battle  S  u m m  e  r . 


There  is  a  cry  for  Barbes.  A  few  valorous  friends  throw 
themselves  before  the  door  of  his  Cabinet ;  but  it  is  in  vain. 

Barbes  is  pinioned  and  led  away.  As  he  descends  the 
stair,  and  crosses  the  Square,  his  step  is  firm  and  his  attitude 
calm. 

He  had  made  a  mistake  ;  he  took  for  revolution  what  was 
only  rebellion. 

Again  and  again  as  he  traverses  the  body  of  troops,  swords 
are  raised  against  him  ;  but  he  is  placed  safely  in  the  dun¬ 
geon  of  the  Conciergerie  ;  and  will  be  safely  removed  to  Vin¬ 
cennes  ;  and  thence  safely  transported  in  car  guarded  by 
dragoons,  and  police  to  Bourges  ;  and  from  Bourges  safely 
again  to  prison. 

- Poor  Barbes  !  wild,  enthusiastic,  strong-minded,  with 

noble  look  ;  honest,  very  likely,  at  heart — loving  life  and 
liberty  much  as  any  of  us, — ten  long  years  of  dungeon  life 
are  before  you  yet ! 

Albert  follows  him  closely — his  pinched  features  working 
with  emotion  :  he  has  played  for  a  high  stake,  and  lost.  In 
the  morning  he  could  dine  at  the  Luxembourg  :  and  he  will 
sup  at  the  Conciergerie.  The  Workman  has  done  his  last 
day’s  work  on  this  Revolution  of  1848  ! 

Lamartine  quits  the  Hotel  de  Ville  in  a  tumult  of  applause. 
The  National  Guard  stands  sentry.  The  Mayor  of  the  city 
returns  to  his  post.  A  bivouac  fire  blazes  on  the  open 
Souare.  And  as  night  closes  in,  white  placards  may  be  seen 
on  every  corner,  bearing  this  proclamation  : — - 

“  The  Assembly  is  not  dissolved.  The  President  yielding 


The  Victims. 


1S5 


“  to  the  confusion  has  declared  the  sitting  suspended.  The 
“  brave  citizens  of  Paris  are  called  upon  to  maintain  the  re- 
“  spect  due  to  the  National  Assembly. 

“  To  attack  the  Assembly  is  to  attack  the  Republic. 
“Vive  l’Assemblee  Nationale  !  Vive  la  Republique! 

“  Armand  Marrast,  Maire  dc  Paris.''"1 

Revolution  has  turned  out  rank  rebellion.  A  little  more 
force,  or  a  little  less ; — what  else  decides  this  matter  between 
Revolution  and  Rebellion  ? 


VII. 

The  Victims. 

I)  ARBES  was  already  at  the  Conciergerie  ;  Courtais,  the 
)  General  of  the  National  Guard  was  with  him.  Sobrier, 
a  Club-man,  and  prime  mover,  who  had  prepared  in  his  snug 
fortress  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  a  capital  array  of  edicts  and 
proclamations  to  guide  the  Republic  of  15th  May,  was  quiv¬ 
ering  the  night  out  under  two  stout  German  dragoons  with 
loaded  pistols,  in  the  caserne  of  the  Quay  d’Orsay. — For 
thirty-six  hours — says  lie  at  Bourges,  and  he  grew  livid  witli 
rage  as  he  said  it,* — they  kept  their  loaded  pistols  to  my 
ears !  Once  he  attempted  to  throw  a  letter  from  the  window, 
to  his  good  friend  Caussidiere  to  come  and  help  him. 


*  Proces  des  Accuses  du  15  Mai. 


1S6 


Tice  Battle  Summer. 


—  He  may  come  and  help  you — said  the  Colonel  of  Dra¬ 
goons — but  if  he  takes  you  away,  he  will  take  only  a  dead 
carcass  ! 

- At  ten,  or  eleven  that  night,  a  threatening-looking  ca¬ 
valcade  with  torches,  drew  up  before  a  humble  door  in  the  Rue 
St.  Francois  There  were  police  officers  and  civil  function¬ 
aries,  and  the  gleaming  casques  of  cuirassiers.  In  that  house 
a  certain  Raspail,  like  a  good  father — en  bon  pere — as  he 
says,  was  paying  a  visit  to  his  son.  But  he  had  read  that  day 
at  the  bar  of  the  Assembly  the  petition  for  Poland,  and  the 
Polish  mob  in  and  out  of  the  Assembly,  had  greeted  him  with 
loud  cries.  Therefore  the  cavalcade  had  come  to  take  him 
to  Vincennes. 

There  was  no  help  for  it ;  the  neighbors  looked  from  their 
windows,  and  saw  the  prisoner  with  his  long,  light  hair  falling 
from  under  his  hat,  pass  out  between  the  officers — enter  the 
close  carriage,  and  disappear.  Years  may  pass,  before  they 
see  him  again. 

Raspail  was  born  in  the  South  :  he  looks  like  a  man  of  five 
and  sixty,  though  he  lacks  ten  full  years  of  that  age.  At 
eighteen  he  had  distinguished  himself  in  chemical  and  philo¬ 
sophical  studies,  and  received  marks  of  the  Emperor’s  favor. 

In  1815,  poor,  unfriended,  alone,  he  wandered  from  his 
southern  home  to  Paris.  He  took  obscure  chambers  near  the 
School  of  Medicine,  and  gave  private  lessons  in  chemistry. 
Working  over  his  retorts,  and  his  figures,  he  mused  upon  his 
favorite  schemes  of  Socialism,  and  a  Republic. 

A  strong  man  struggling  with  poverty  and  neglect,  runs 


The  Victims. 


187 


naturally  into  hatred  of  the  rich,  and  of  rank.  The  veil  of 
merely  factitious  distinctions  which  hides  his  merit,  he  burns 
to  pluck  away.  He  fought  for  it  in  1830.  But  here  the 
dreamer  was  disappointed.  A  new  King,  a  new  court,  a  new 
nobility,  a  new  aristocracy  blazed  hotter  and  more  hateful  in 
his  eyes  than  galvanic  flame. 

The  King  knew  of  the  hot  soul  that  was  sending  out  sparks 
from  the  dusky  chamber  of  the  quarter  of  the  Schools.  Ho 
sent  him  the  Cross  of  Honor.  Raspail  refused  it. 

In  chemical  and  philosophical  labors,  relieved  by  partici¬ 
pation  in  an  occasional  conspiracy,  and  some  years  of  prison, 
Raspail  passed  the  time  up  to  the  date  of  the  February  Revo¬ 
lution.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  25th  when  the  cry  passed  in 
student  quarters,  like  a  heavy  groan,  that  a  Regency  was  de¬ 
clared,  and  when  the  Republic  was  still  doubtful,  Raspail  left 
his  chambers,  attended  by  a  few  companions,  students — his 
students — and  men  of  blouse,  and  working  his  way  over  bar¬ 
ricades,  and  among  crowds  who  cheered  the  charity-doing 
philosopher,  he  arrived  at  the  Place  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 
A  file  of  soldiers  arrested  his  course  ; — on  ne  passe  pas, — 
none  can  pass. 

—  Si — said  Raspail — the  people  pass  ! — and  thrusting  his 
way  through  he  gained  the  entrance  to  the  council  chamber. 
Breaking  in  upon  the  assembled  Provisionary  Power,  followed 
by  a  few  earnest  and  fearless  ones,  he  regarded  for  a  moment 
with  a  look  of  disdain,  that  he  well  knew  how  to  assume,  the 
new  authorities, — then  lifting  his  voice  till  the  vaulted  ceiling 
rang,  he  demanded,  as  if  the  soul  of  all  that  turbulent  crowd 


188  The  Battle  Summer. 

below  were  in  his  utterance  : — what  is  it  you  do  ?  Do  you 
hesitate  to  proclaim  a  Republic  ? — still  dreaming  of  a  Re¬ 
gency  ?  Woe  to  you,  if  such  is  your  thought !  Look  well 
to  yonder  swords  and  muskets  !  If  in  an  hour’s  time,  Repub- 
lique  Frangaise,  be  not  at  the  head  of  your  proclamations,  the 
people  will  proclaim  it  for  themselves  ! 

—  Who  knows  if  you  will  go  out  hence  alive  ! 

The  next  proclamation  was  headed — Republique  Frangaise. 

But  even  now  was  the  philosopher  unsatisfied.  The  visions 
that  hung  over  him  at  his  night  toil,  and  that  multiplied  into 
fairy  shapes  in  the  fumes  of  his  laboratory,  were  not  yet  made 
good.  His  impassioned  voice  was  heard,  night  after  night, 
under  the  iron  colonnade  of  the  Salle  Montesquieu.  The 
Republic  was  with  him  but  a  first,  faint  step — but  a  prelude 
to  that  entire  equality  of  rigM,  which  would  open  to  strug¬ 
gling  merit  and  poverty,  an  easy  road  to  position. 

It  was  no  slow  operation  of  mere  political  and  legal  rights, 
which  he  recognized  as  the  means  of  righteous  and  complete 
success.  His  crazed  brain,  scorched  with  furnace  flames,  saw 
justice  only  in  immediate  and  entire  prostration  of  everything 
that  now  lay  between  poverty  and  place, — between  weakness 
and  power.  Thrones,  sceptres,  liveries,  palaces,  must  be 
done  away  with.  The  man — the  soul-man — must  tread  down 
circumstance. 

Suffering  he  sought  out  to  relieve  ;  and  in  relieving  it,  felt 
an  ecstacy  in  kindling  a  new  and  weightier  indignation  against 
pomp  and  display.  The  wealth  that  showed  itself  in  fetes  and 
triumphs,  brought  a  scowl  to  his  brow,  black  as  night. 


The  Victims. 


189 


His  heart  was  warm,  but  his  judgment  diseased.  He  was 
a  dangerous,  good  man.  He  was  locked  in  Vincennes — happy 
in  his  martyrdom. 

Blanqui,  the  arch-plotter,  was  still  at  large.  On  the  third 
or  fourth  day,  the  police  wei;e  upon  his  track.  A  commis¬ 
sioner  with  two  attendants  entered  a  house  in  the  Rue  St. 
Honore,  which  had  been  designated  as  one  occupied  by  a 
friend  of  Blanqui,  who  now  gave  him  concealment.  The 
officer  entered  the  apartment  upon  the  third  floor,  where  the 
occupant  was  dining  with  his  family :  a  thorough  search  was 
made,  but  no  Blanqui  was  to  be  found.  The  officer  retired. 
The  friend  hears  the  retreating  steps,  and  fills  his  glass  to 
the  health  and  safety  of  Blanqui. 

But  scarce  is  the  glass  set  down,  before  there  is  a  new  tap 
at  the  door.  That  commissioner  is  the  gentlest  and  quiet¬ 
est  of  observers.  He  has  remarked  a  range  of  low  windows, 
above  the  apartments  which  he  has  entered : — and  if  windows 
surely  there  must  be  a  stairway ; — but  no  stairway  is  to  be 
found. 

He  quietly  asks  leave  to  remove  a  heavy,  old-fashioned 
commode.  He  taps  his  knuckles  against  the  wall,  and  has 
presently  opened  a  snug  little  door,  from  which  a  neat  stair¬ 
way  leads  above. 

Blanqui  is  there,  dining  with  a  couple  of  friends.  A  long 
and  dismal  prison-life  had  weakened  the  frame  and  the  nerve 
of  Blanqui.  He  dreaded  its  return  as  a  child  dreads  punish¬ 
ment. 

He  first  plead  with  the  commissioner  as  an  old  friend.  It 


190 


The  Battle  Summer. 


was  in  vain.  He  changed  speedily  into  denunciation  and 
menace.  The  police  numbered  hut  three,  only  one  of  them 
armed.  Blanqui  had  pistols,  and  with  his  friends  he  might 
perhaps  have  successfully  resisted. 

But  the  Paris  Commissioner  of  Police  rarely  loses  coolness. 
He  stepped  to  the  window,  and  made  a  slight  gesture,  as  if  he 
were  beckoning  to  attendants  below. — In  three  minutes — said 
he— your  apartment  will  be  filled  with  soldiers.  Will  you 
go  quietly,  or  will  you  wait  to  be  dragged  down  ? 

Blanqui  threw  down  his  pistols  in  despair.  The  commis¬ 
sioner  had  no  force  below,  but  his  ruse  had  succeeded. 

A  new,  and  long,  and  bitter  prison-life  lay  before  the  still 
young,  and  enthusiastic  Blanqui. 

Flotte,  a  pompier ,  had  been  from  day  to  day  reported,  but 
for  a  long  time  eluded  capture.  On  the  19th  a  platoon  of 
soldiers  drew  up  around  a  wine-shop  upon  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  de  la  Fontaine  Moliere  :  a  policeman  entered,  and  asked 
of  the  proprietor — a  certain  Flotte.  The  proprietor  objected 
to  a  search,  and  to  the  charge  of  harboring  a  criminal. 

The  officer  stepped  up  to  the  little  table  where  the  wine- 
seller  was  drinking  with  a  companion,  and  says — You  were 
drinking  with  your  friends  ;  here  are  three  glasses  ;  the  third 
is  Flotte’s. 

And  in  a  little  cabinet  down  the  court,  the  noisy  pompier , 
who  had  been  among  the  loudest,  and  most  violent  of  the 
May  intruders  is  captured.  For  him,  too,  a  dungeon  is  made 
ready  at  Vincennes  ; — to  open  again  on  the  Court  of  Bourges ; 
— and  the  Court  of  Bourges  upon  a  new  and  longer  prison. 


The  Issue  of  Rebellion. 


191 


And  now  all  the  open  plotters  have  exchanged  club-sittings, 
and  Paris  streets  so  gay  and  lively,  for  such  gaiety  as  can  be 
found  in  the  grim  Chateau  of  Vincennes. 

Louis  Blanc,  and  Caussijliere  strongly  suspected,  are  still 
at  liberty ;  but  a  committee  of  investigation  is  making  ready 
charges.  Their  time  will  come 


The 


Issue 


VIII. 

of  Rebellion. 


AT  first,  strict  sympathy  declares  strongly  for  that  As¬ 
sembly  which  has  been  so  ruthlessly  violated  ; — for  the 
intrepid  Buchtz  who  so  long  held  his  place  ; — for  the  Executive 
Power  which  came  so  near  to  annihilation.  On  the  sixteenth 
diners  out,  chinked  their  glasses  together,  and  drank — long 
life  to  the  Executive  ; — long  life  to  the  Assembly  ; — and  long 
life  to  Buchez  ! 

But  shop,  and  cafe  sympathy  is  not  long-lived.  Bour¬ 
geois,  recovering  a  little  from  their  fright,  ask  themselves, 
over  morning  absinthe,  how  this  thing  has  come  to  pass  ? 
They  recal  Ledru  Rollin’s  pleas  for  Poland  ;  they  remember 
that  Courtais,  in  the  confidence  of  the  Government,  had 
periled  everything  by  his  sadly  temporizing  measures  ;  they 
talk  gloomily  of  Caussidiere’s  steeple  hat,  and  how  his  name 
was  high  upon  the  new  list  ;  they  sum  up  all  Lamartine’s  hu¬ 
mane,  and  fraternizing  harangues  to  that  mob-world  ;  they 


192 


The  Battle  Summer. 


wondered — as  well  they  might — how  Barbes  with  his  disor¬ 
derly  company,  had  pushed  his  way  so  easily  into  the  interior 
of  die  Hotel  de  Ville. 

All  this  was  certainly  very  strange,  and  calculated  to  excite 
distrust  with  those  less  suspicious  and  timid  than  the  Bour¬ 
geois. 

The  madness,  and  the  energy  of  those  who  had  captured 
the  Chamber,  did  not  soon  pass  from  remembrance.  The 
sympathizing  voices  of  those  hordes  that  covered  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde,  make — even  in  the  recollection — the  bravest 
of  shop-keepers  afraid. — There  is  disaffection, — they  say  ; — 
there  is  more  Revolutionism  astir  than  will  be  content  with 
mere  suffrage, — and  Republic,  which  of  themselves  would  nei¬ 
ther  much  harm  trade  or  stocks.  And  who  but  Ledru  Rollin 
is  favoring  with  his  Reforme  circulars,  this  mad  spirit  of  Revo¬ 
lution  ; — and  who  but  our  poetizing  Lamartine  is  finding 
apologists  for  Rollin,  and  for  Caussidiere,*  and  for  mad 
street  action  ?  Who  but  these  high-paid  Garde  Mobile, 
drafted  from  the  faubourgs,  are  the  faubourg  defenders  of  Rev¬ 
olution  ; — and  who  are  growing  noisier,  idler,  more  troublous 
man  those  seventy  thousand  workmen,  paid  day  by  day  at 
the  public  workshops  ? 

And  the  Bourgeois,  with  shops  empty,  sighed  again  at  the 
Revolution,  they  had  the  initiative  in  bringing  forward.  Like 
the  Girondins  who  matured  the  decheance  of  the  10th 
August')*  they  had  lost  the  prestige,  and  the  eclat  of  victors. 

*  Vid.  Speech  of  Lamartine  of  16  Mai.  Moniteur  17  Mai.  1848. 
f  Histoire  des  Girondins .  Vol„  ii. 


The  Issue  of  Rebellion.  193 

S 

The  people,  as  then,  more  active,  persistent,  reckless,  had  as¬ 
sumed  both  perils  and  rewards. 

Still  there  had  been  an  escape ;  and  escape  gave  confi¬ 
dence.  It  was  no  small  consolation  to  know  that  Barbes,  and 
Sobrier  were  at  Vincennes  ;  and  that  the  Blanqui  club  was 
silenced.  True,  there  were  not  a  few  extenuating  voices 
in  the  Chamber,  which  though  overruled  by  a  large  Bourgeois 
majority,  might  yet  grow  strong  under  threat  or  favor  of 
Commune.  The  Jacobins  were  but  a  handful,  when  the  old 
Legislative  Assembly  commenced  its  session  ;  but  at  the  2d 
of  September,  Jacobin  votes  ruled  the  house. 

Moreover  a  street-army  had  already  dispossessed  one 
Chamber  ;  it  had  even  suspended,  and  threatened  the  pres¬ 
ent  ;  might  it  not  have  new  and  larger  success  ? 

There  was  reason  then  for  Bourgeois  to  doubt ; — their  taxes 
had  increased  ; — their  profits  had  diminished  ; — their  relative 
influence  in  the  commonwealth  had  grown  faint. 

This  matter  of  May  had  given  tangibility  to  their  doubts. 
The  Presse  denounced  the  Government  as  incapable,  and  di¬ 
latory  :  Louis  Blanc  and  Caussidiere  were  upbraided,  and  fear¬ 
lessly  accused  in  every  cafe  from  the  Madaleine  to  the  Porte 
St.  Denis. 

Lamartine — strongly  suspected  of  sympathy  with  insurgent 
action  — was  certainly,  so  far  as  might  be  judged  by  his 
speeches,  and  past  political  actions,  opposed  to  the  demands 
of  the  inflamed  masses  of  15th  May.  He  differed  with 
them,  however,  only  in  reference  to  time,  and  means.  He 

was  drifting  too  near  the  direction  of  their  opinions,  to  make 
9 


V 


194  The  Battle  Summer. 

his  opposition  effective,  or  to  give  to  it  an  air  of  sincerity. 
Moreover,  he  had  too  recently  enjoyed  the  sympathy,  and  ap¬ 
plause  of  street  multitudes,  to  be  able  to  doubt  their  action. 
He  had  joined  voice  with  them  to  mature  the  Republic  ;  and 
they  had  joined  voice  with  him  to  secure  the  Executive.  He 
knew  them  to  be  wayward,  and  impulsive  ;  but  his  doubts  had 
not  yet  ripened  into  distrust.  They  had  reposed  in  him  so 
great  confidence,  that  he  could  scarce  avoid  a  large  measure 
of  it  in  return. 

As  for  Rollin,  his  whole  life  and  manner,  was  such  as  to  in¬ 
cur  the  odium,  and  suspicion  of  the  Bourgeois.  Proud  and 
ambitious,  he  had  early  left  the  dull  pleadings  of  the  minor 
courts,  to  defend  against  ministerial  prosecution  the  most  vir¬ 
ulent  Journals  of  the  Opposition.  He  had  arrayed  himself 
early — partly  without  doubt,  from  sympathy,  but  more  from 
ambitious  design — with  those  who  fostered  democratic  senti¬ 
ment. 

His  art  at  the  tribune— his  fine  physique, — his  native  ora¬ 
tory, — his  enthusiasm,  made  his  manner  the  most  attractive 
possible  for  a  popular  leader. 

Living,  not  so  humbly  as  did  Robespierre,  he  yet  affected- 
even  though  his  means  could  have  allowed  of  other  action, — 
a  disdain  of  all  style.  His  rooms  were  in  a  large  Hotel  of  the 
Rue  de  Tournon,  not  far  from  the  Palace  of  the  Luxem¬ 
bourg,  and  but  a  short  distance  away  from  those  centres  of 
popular  movement, — the  Place  de  Pantheon,  and  the  Carre- 
four  de  Bussy. 

His  carriage  was  ordinarily  a  simple  caleche  from  a  neigh- 


Assembly  and  Constitution.  195 

coring  remise ; — not  always  new  or  clean.  At  times  he  rode 
with  his  head  thrown  back  in  the  corner,  so  as  to  escape  ob¬ 
servation  ;  and  at  others,  chatted  familiarly  with  the  coach¬ 
man  beside  him. 

His  dress  without  being  noticeably  fashionable,  was  clearly 
the  product  of  some  atelier  of  repute.  His  hat,  broad  brim¬ 
med,  and  rolled  up  at  the  sides,  had  a  slightly  jaunty  air,  and 
was  worn  a  little  upon  one  side  of  a  fine,  massive  head.  You 
might  not  unfrequently  meet  him  walking  with  two  or  three 
companions, — whom  he  overtopped  by  half  a  head, — along 
the  quays,  or  upon  the  narrow,  slippery  trottoirs  of  those 
streets  which  branch  from  the  Rue  de  Tournon,  or  Rue  de  Seine. 

Occasionally  a  group  of  mingled  black  coats  of  scholars, 
and  blouse  of  workmen  would  attend  him  to  the  door,  and 
leave  him  with  an  earnest  shout  of— ‘-Vive  Ledru  Rollin  ! 

In  short,  he  was  by  far  too  popular  with  those  who  had 
rule  of  faubourgs,  to  make  his  presence  other  than  odious,  to 
those  who  were  already  fearful  of  a  faubourg  triumph. 


IX. 

% 

Assembly  and  Constitution. 


THE  Assembly  is  itself  again  ;  Pages  makes  Report  of 
Executive  doings  to  the  Chamber,  full  of  promise  and  of 
determination. 

—  Our  brave  and  glorious  army — says  he — so  long  desired 


196  T  h  e  Battle  Summer. 

by  us,  has  orders  to  approach  Paris :  the  Montagnards  at  the 
Prefecture  are  dissolved ;  Caussidiere  has  resigned  his 
trust  of  Prefect :  Clement  Thomas  has  been  named  Com¬ 
mandant  of  the  National  Guard. 

—  We  believe — continues  he — that  in  naming  us  to  the 
Executive  functions,  you  had  confidence  in  us.  We  will  exe¬ 
cute  the  trust  imposed,  or  we  will  die  in  the  attempt. 

The  Assembly  seals  his  promise  with  a  bravo — an  idle  sup¬ 
port  ! 

And.  now  comes  up  again  the  olci  matter,  for  which  these 
nine  hundred  men  are  met  together — a  Constitution  for 
France.  Twelve  days  and  more  have  passed,  and  nothing 
towards  this  main  matter  has  been  done.  Even  now  the 
question  comes  up  in  its  simplest,  and  least  promising  shape ; 
— who  of  the  nine  hundred  shall  make  this  much-needed  Con¬ 
stitution  ? 

After  long  wrangling,  and  many  days  of  talk,  a  Committee 
of  Constitution-makers  is  named.  At  the  head  of  it  is  Cor- 
menin,  the  Timon  of  Publicists  ; — a  keen,  shrewd,  observing, 
scholar-like  man,  who  will  after  all  labor  a  great  deal  more  at 
the  rhetoric  of  his  task,  than  its  humanity. 

There  are  beside  him  de  Tocqueville,  the  student  of 
American  form  ;  Lamennais,  the  strange-headed  devot ;  Mar- 
rast,  of  the  newspaper  National  ;  Dufaure,  an  able  and  accom¬ 
plished  politician  ;  Coquerel,  the  eminent,  and  eloquent  Ra¬ 
tionalist  preacher  of  the  Oratoire  ;  Dupin,  the  old  heavy- 
headed  law-lecturer  ;  de  Beaumont  the  accomplished  diplo¬ 
mat  and  politician  of  the  Salon  ;  Barrot  the  lawyer  ;  Conside- 


Assembly  and  Constitution.  197 

rant  the  mild-mannered,  persuasive-tongued  Fourierite, — and 
others  to  the  number  of  eighteen. 

It  was  an  extraordinary  mixture  of  opinions  that  was  here 
set  at  work — dating  from  the  18th  of  May — to  construct  a 
Constitution  for  France  ! 

Cormenin  would  make  it  cold,  classic,  and  Spartan  ;  Mar- 
rast,  with  the  tastes  of  the  other  arm  of  Greece,  would 
graft  upon  it  the  splendors,  and  license  of  Athenian  rule. 
Barrot  and  Dupin  enter  upon  the  task,  as  they  would  have 
entered  upon  the  settlement  of  a  judicial  question  ;  with  them 
precedents  would  take  the  place  of  all  Lamennais  lax  notions 
of  humanity ;  and  analogies  artfully  made  out,  would  rebut 
the  Fourier  ideas  of  dreamy  Considerant. 

Yet  this  Constitution  must  be  made  ;  the  street  is  eager 
for  it ;  the  country  is  demanding  it.  A  sad  line  of  precedents 
runs  before  them  ;  one  after  another — King’s  Constitution,  and 
legislative  Constitution,  and  people’s  Constitution,  and  Charter, 
and  Code,  and  New  Charter,  have  broken  down.  Shall  the 
New  have  better  fate  ?  Have  fifty  years  made  French  blood 
calmer,  cooler,  more  Constitution-worthy  ?  Shall  this  Dupin, 
who  in  hall  of  law  has  dissected  past  Constitutions,— as  coolly 
and  carelessly  as  they  dissect  hospital  refuse  at  Clemart — now 
leave  one  to  future  dissection  that  shall  bear  long  and  worth¬ 
ily  all  possible  dissection  ? 

- In  committee  rooms  they  are  busy ;  little  pamphlets, 

with  translations  of  all  known  Constitutions,  are  on  sale  at  all 
the  street  stalls  ;  little  lirraisons  of  plans,  and  studies,  and 
sketches  of  Constitutions,  are  trying  all  the  politic  and  adroit 


19S 


The  Battle  Summer. 


pens  of  such  as  have  neither  tribune  nor  committee  room  to 
speak  from. 

Even  the  dramatists  make  vaudevilles  of  “  Constitutions 
Plato  is  set  upon  the  stage — and  Sir  Thomas  More — and  Ca- 
bet ;  and  pit  and  gallery  are  made  to  roar  a  clamorous  ap¬ 
plause  at  provisos  and  preambles. 

- We  will  leave  them  for  the  present — committee-men, 

pamphleteers,  melo-dramatists,  booksellers — all  quietly  at 
their  work. 


X. 


A  Seam  in  the  Executive. 

0  all  appearance,  the  Government  is  now  doing  its 


_JL  bravest  to  keep  streets  quiet — to  feed  hungry  men — to 
pay  the  eighty  thousand  workers  at  the  Public-Shop — to 
hurry  forward  the  army  to  Paris — to  pacify  the  English,  and 
Austrian,  and  Belgiah,  and  Russian  courts,  and — harder  work 
than  all — to  keep  itself  from  falling. 

But  is  there  agreement  even  in  the  dozen  who  make  up 
Government  ?  Are  there  not  cabinet  sympathizers  with 
Bourgeois,  and  cabinet  sympathizers  with  Blouse  ?  Were 
there  not  cabinet  members,  who  in  salon  and  in  club — where 
neither  Lamartine,  nor  Rollin,  nor  Blanc  were  attendants — 
pushed  heartily  forward  in  their  labors,  that  committee  of  inves¬ 
tigation,  whose  aim  it  was,  without  douht,  to  inculpate  Blanc 
and  Caussidiere  in  the  affair  of  May  ? 


A  Seam  in  the  Executive. 


199 


If  public  rumor  might  be  credited,  there  was  such  action  ; 
and  public  rumor  attributed  not  a  little  of  such  action  to  Mar- 
rast,  the  Mayor  of  Paris. 

This  man  was  a  Republican,  but  an  ambitious  Republican  ; 
he  was  a  Democrat,  but  he  was  an  aristocratic  Democrat. 
He  could  make  a  plea  as  eloquent  as  any  one  of  the  Vieux 
Cordelier,  for  liberty  of  thought  and  expression  ;  but  he  could 
not  lifce  Marat  inhabit  a  cellar,  or  like  Desmoulins  join 
hands  with  the  besotted  creatures  of  the  Faubourgs. 

He  had  been  half  disappointed  at  the  outset  ;  he  had  been 
editor  of  the  leading  Liberal  journal, — the  same  journal  at 
whose  office  was  arranged  the  programme  of  1830,  and  which 
had  given  two  members,  Lafitte  and  Thiers,  to  the  cabinet  of 
Louis  Philippe.  Marrast  was  simply  Mayor  de  Paris  ;  but 
not  such  head  of  Commune  as  Petion. 

He  had  been  subject  to  political  persecution  ;  he  had  pass¬ 
ed  much  of  his  time  in  English  exile ;  he  had  brought  from 
England  an  English  wife.  His  manner  and  form  mark  the 
bon-vivant ;  he  is  clearly  a  lover  of  his  ease  ;  and  as  clearly  a 
lover  of  luxury.  He  delighted  in  such  trappings  and  cere¬ 
mony  as  his  office  gave  to  him.  His  coat  and  hat  were 
always — if  not  graceful — at  least  a  la  mode.  His  moustache 
was  always  well  disposed  ; — -his  hair  turned  to  a  nicety.  He 
handled  an  eye-glass  with  the  grace  of  an  adept.  His  eye 
was  not  unused  to  opera-box  manoeuvre. 

Sentinels  in  blouse  were  an  abomination  to  him.  He  loved 
the  people, — but  not  their  dirt,  or  their  vulgarity.  In  matters 
of  art,  lie  affected,  and  not  without  reason,  the  connoisseur. 


200 


The  Battle  Summer. 


He  delighted  — without  being  a  soldier — in  military  display 
He  loved  the  theatres,  and  rumor  assigned  to  him  favorites 
among  the  prettiest  of  Paris  actresses. 

Of  Ledru  Rolliu  he  was  jealous ;  he  was  afraid  of  the  pop¬ 
ularity  of  Lamartine  ;  and  he  ridiculed  the  pretensions  and 
philosophy  of  Louis  Blanc. 

This  man  Marrast  was  a  friend  of  Cavaignac  ;  Cavaignac 
had  been  named  Minister  of  War,  and  had  returnaj  from 
Algeria,  where  he  held  post  of  Governor,  at  the  instance  of 
this  friend.  The  tastes  of  Cavaignac  were  widely  different 
from  those  of  Marrast,  but  it  did  not  forbid  the  cementing  of 
a  close  friendship. 

Cavaignac  was  ambitious ;  but  his  ambition  was  of  a 
healthy  and  honest  cast.  Grave — almost  to  sternness — in  his 
manner,  he  was  obstinately  attached  to  his  political  opinions  ; 
and  those  opinions  were  Republican  Opinions. 

A  son  of  one  of  the  murdering  members  of  the  old  Com¬ 
mune,  he  had  yet  no  cruelty,  and  no  Jacobinism  in  his  na¬ 
ture.  His  habit,  and  education  as  a  soldier  would  forbid.  At 
the  same  time  he  recognized  none  of  those  compromises, 
which  are  the  game  of  politicians,  and  of  statesmen.  He  went 

straight-forward  to  the  accomplishment  of  whatever  business 

* 

was  in  hand. 

He  could  have  no  tolerance  for  the  propagand  views  of 
Ledru  Rollin ;  and  like  a  strict  disciplinarian  he  could  not 
understand  how  such  affair  as  that  of  May  could  transpire, 
without  leaving  a  stain  on  the  character  of  the  Minister  of  the 
Interior. 


A  Seam  in  the  Executive.  201 

Still  less  could  he  pardon  the  action,  or  listen  to  what  he 
'deemed  the  subterfuges  of  Louis  Blanc,  and  of  Caussidiere 
It  was  enough  for  him  to  know  that  they  were  boon  friends 
of  the  leaders  in  the  Assembly,  on  that  unfortunate  day. 

Nor  could  he  understand  the  policy  of  Lamartine,  in  sus¬ 
taining  these  two  members  of  the  Assembly — if  indeed  he  had 
any  high  opinion  of  the  governing  capacity  of  the  great  orator 
of  the  People.  * 

Cavaignac  was  without  the  least  spark  of  imagination,  or 
enthusiasm  ;  he  could  listen  entranced  to  the  speeches  of  La¬ 
martine — saying  to  himself — Cest  bean — c'est  lien! — but  his 
wonder  would  be  undisguised  at  their  effect  upon  popular  feel¬ 
ing.  A  good  speaker — he  thought — may  be  a  bad  governor  ; 
just  as  a  good  drill  sergeant  may  make  a  very  poor  soldier. 

Nor  were  these  the  only  two  men  of  the  Cabinet,  who  spoke 
freely  of  Executive  action.  But  Lamartine  was  not  the  man 
to  take  umbrage  at  slight  disaffection.  He  had  enlisted  him¬ 
self,  heart  and  soul,  in  what  seemed  to  him  a  great  work  ; 
men  and  opinions  were  half  forgotten  in  the  engrossing  idea 
which  loomed  before  his  thought,  and  spread  out  before  his 
life — the  secure  establishment  of  that  Republic,  of  which  he 
had  been  virtual  founder. 

A  vain  man,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  that  term,  he  yet  did 
not  suffer  his  vanity,  or  his  prejudice  to  come  between  him, 
and  the  end  which  lay  at  his  heart.  For  this,  he  was  willing 
— nay  anxious,  to  combine  whatever  forces  were  at  command, 
— to  lay  himself  open  to  odium — to  risk  favor,  popularity,  and 
life  itself. 


9* 


202 


The  Battle  Summer. 


His  spirit  was  nearer  than  that  of  any  man  of  his  time,  to 
the  spirit  of  the  old  Girondins — Brissot  or  Vergniaud, — who- 
labored,  thanklessly  it  might  he, — in  danger  perhaps, — alone, 
if  so  it  turned — hut  constantly,  and  fearlessly  toward  the  issue, 
which  hy  its  magnitude  and  beauty,  had  engrossed  their  souls. 

But  work  as  he  will,  wich  pen,  and  voice,  and  brain — en¬ 
during,  suffering,  wearying, — 'Destiny  is  working  faster  ;  and 
Destiny  will  overtake  him,  and  trip  him. 


But  not  yet. 


XI. 


A  F  tTE. 


1HE  Sunday  fete  of  the  14th,  had  been  put  off  to  the 


JL  21st.  The  events  of  Monday,  and  the  excitement  of 
the  week  which  followed,  had  almost  driven  it  from  people’s 
thoughts :  still,  however,  the  workmen  were  at  their  task. 

By  Saturday  afternoon,  long  festoons  of  white,  red,  and  blue 
lanterns,  stretched  the  whole  length  of  the  Champs  Elysees  on 
either  side  ;  a  large  frame  work  rose  from  the  top  of  the  Arch 
of  Triumph  ;  and  the  Champs  de  Mars,  the  principal  scene 
of  the  fete,  was  covered  with  spars  and  hangings. 

Not  another  European  city  has  within  its  circumference, 
such  magnificent  fete-ground  as  the  Champs  de  Mars.  It 
stretches  from  the  great  hulk  of  the  military  school,  to  the 
bridge  upon  the  Seine ;  and  it  is  a  cannon  shot  in  breadth. 
A  hundred  thousand  troops  can  easily  manoeuvre,  with  their 


A  F  £  t  e  . 


203 


artillery,  and  their  cavalry,  upon  its  smooth,  gravid  surface 
On  either  side,  mounds  rise,  running  its  whole  length,  and 
covered  with  trees.  These  were  thrown  up,  during  the  last 
Revolution,  on  the  occasion  of  the  great  fete  de  VEtre  Su¬ 
preme.  On  the  day  previous  to  that  fete,  the  workmen  had  not 
completed  the  necessary  excavations,  and  the  people  were 
invited  to  assist ;  and  for  five  and  thirty  hours,  night  and  day, 
— men,  women,  and  children,  numbering  not  less  than  fifty 
thousand,  were  at  work  with  shovel  and  hoe,  to  complete  the 
great  fete  ground  of  the  Capital. 

The  French  of  to-day,  love  fetes  as  well  as  the  French  of 
Robespierre,  and  VEtre  Supreme. 

Just  off  the  bridge,  and  at  the  entrance  to  the  field,  were 
four  grand  crimson  masts  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  height, 
with  gilded  bands,  and  bearing  huge  oriflammes  of  crimson  and 
gold.  Beyond,  were  three  triangular  pyramids,  towering  some 
eighty  feet, — rising  from  circular  bases,  on  which  stood,  against 
each  pyramidal  face,  a  colossal,  aad  allegorical  statue.  The 
pyramids  were  inscribed  in  gold,  with  the  names  of  the  chief 
cities  of  France.  Two  statues  near  by,  represented  Agricul¬ 
ture  and  Industry. 

Around  the  field,  forty  tall  masts,  rising  from  sculptured 
pedestals,  bore  each  an  oriflamme,  with  inscriptions  commemo¬ 
rative  of  the  February  triumph. 

From  mast  to  mast,  supported  by  crimson  lances  in  the 
middle,  were  festoons  of  tri-colored  lamps  for  the  evening 
illumination.  Within  the  masts,  on  each  side  of  the  field, 
swept  around  a  range  of  rich  Venetian  candelabras. 


204 


The  Battle  Summer. 


Sixteen  pavilions  crowned  with  ancient  tripods,  were  scat¬ 
tered  at  intervals  on  either  side  ;  and  between  pavilions  were 
stretched  the  tables  shielded  by  crimson  hangings,  for  the 
banquet  of  the  day. 

In  the  middle  of  the  field  was  the  gigantic  statue  of  the 
Republic,  crowned  with  Phrygian  cap, — with  one  hand  on 
the  altar  of  the  country,  and  with  the  other  holding  dagger 
and  olive.  Four  colossal  lions  guard  the  corners  of  the  pe¬ 
destal. 

A  rich  festoon  of  nine  banners  embroidered  in  gold,  stretches 
from  pyramid  to  pyramid  over  the  entrance. 

At  the  farther  end,  under  the  dome  of  the  Military  School, 
and  almost  hiding  that  huge  hulk  of  stone,  is  an  open  semi¬ 
circular  amphitheatre  of  raised  seats,  where  the  Assembly,  the 
Government,  the  Diplomatic  corps,  hold  their  places — flanked 
on  either  side  by  three  thousand  gaily-dressed  ladies. 

At  an  early  hour  the  rappel  is  beaten  ;  the  National 
Guard  is  early  astir.  From  various  quarters  gay  processions 
move,  and  by  10  o’clock,  the  defile  commences  between  the 
pyramids  by  the  bridge  of  St.  Jean.  The  Champs  de  Mars  is 
thronged  with  spectators — who  have  come  in  from  the  Pro¬ 
vinces,  for  a  distance  of  thirty  miles  encircling  Paris — and 
■with  such  troops  as  are  stationed  to  preserve  order.  At  the 
base  of  the  pyramids,  hundreds  are  seated  in  circular  amphi¬ 
theatres  built  upon  the  pedestals,  and  around  the  plinth  of  the 
gigantic  statue  in  the  centre. 

Tripods,  and  bronze  urns,  and  vases  after  the  antique,  min' 
gle  in  the  distance  with  banners,  and  moving  troops,  and 


A  Fete. 


205 


waving  scarfs  of  ladies.  Music  is  never  wanting  to  French 
fete ;  and  music  is  here,  to  make  one  shut  his  ears,  for  the 
clamor  of  cymbals,  and  the  bray  of  horns.  But  the  fete  is 
not  all  military,  nor  all  musical. 

Eighty-four  men  in  citizens’  dress,  bear  banners  which  re¬ 
present  the  eighty-four  departments  of  France.  Corpora¬ 
tions,  with  all  their  paraphernalia,  and  civil  decorations  follow. 

Old  members  of  the  Old  Guard,  in  white-faced  coats,  have 
joined  the  fete,  and  their  feeble  step  is  greeted  here  and  there, 
with  a  well-meant,  low-uttered,  Vive  l' Empereur !  Italy 
has  its  slouch-hatted,  dark-eyed  corps,  glancing  up  at  waving 
banners,  and  forward  at  the  more  than  Roman  splendor  of 
the  field. 

Poland  has  its  gartered,  braid-jacketted  cohort,  lamenting 
the  fate  of  Monday.  Ireland  even  shows  its  brogue-talking, 
splay-footed  company,  with  shamrock  embroidered  on  their 
banner. 

The  arts  too,  are  represented  : — here  comes  a  great  temple 
of  Solomon,  drawn  by  four  milk  white  horses  ;  and  there  a 
columnar  palace  of  alabaster.  Music  makers  have  a  huge 
car,  drawn  by  long  array  of  robed  horses, — with  cymbals 
clashing  and  waving  in  the  sunlight, — with  violins  great  and 
small,  half-humming  in  the  wind, — with  hundreds  of  trumpets 
dangling  from  high-bannered  staffs, — and  with  white-dressed 
infants  touching  gently  at  golden  harps. 

After  it  comes  the  car  of  Agriculture,  with  implements  and 
flowers,  drawn  by  twenty  huge  laboring  beasts,  and  followed 


206 


The  Battle  Summer. 


by  five  hundred  girls  pobed  in  white,  crowned  each  of  them 
with  a  wreath  of  oak  leaves. 

A  press  is  busy  working  off  the  Marseillaise,  and  song  of 
the  Girondins ;  and  girl-chants  mingle  with  the  blast  of  in¬ 
struments,  and  the  noise  of  infant  fingers  upon  harp  strings, 
and  the  booming  of  the  cannon  by  the  Hotel  des  Invalides. 

The  sun  is  shining  hot,  glistening  far  along  over  the  waving 
banners,  and  on  brazen  instruments,  and  top  of  tripods,  and 
muskets,  and  flashing  cuirass  of  dragoons.  Drum  mingles 
with  bugle,  and  the  far  notes  of  some  Carmagnole  song,  is 
echoed  again  and  again  by  the  thunder  of  the  deep-mouthed 
cannon. 

A  balloon  rises  beyond,  and  soars  for  a  moment  over  the 
vast  fete  ground  ;  little  parachutes  drop  down,  bringing  from 
heaven  to  earth  gold-printed  Marseillaise— then  pass,  borne 
by  the  wind — into  distant  cloud-land. 

- Thus  fete,  and  banquet,  and  procession, — making 

Paris  heart  gay,  roll  on  hour  after  hour. 

Churches,  though  it  be  Sunday,  are  empty.  The  old  wor¬ 
ship  is  set  aside  ;  and  a  new  worship  is  born. 

Carmagnole  songs  are  prayers  ;  soldiers  are  priests ;  and 
for  altars — lo,  the  heathen  tripods  : 


A  Stranger’s  Thought. 


207 


XII. 

A  Stranger’s  Thought. 

HERE  and  there, — it  may  have  been — scattered  in  the 
vast  array,  was  some  noiseless,  unnoticed  looker-on, 
nurtured  under  other  faith,  and  belonging  to  other  soil, — who 
mused  with  himself  as  the  fete  glided  by ;  and  who  contrasted 
that  mirth  and  music,  with  the  still  air  of  the  summer  Sun¬ 
days,  in  the  other  land  to  which  he  belonged. 

- And  he  would  measure  the  matter  possibly  thus  : — 

There  in  that  land  beyond  seas,  perhaps  only  across  Channel 
waters — all  this,  gay  as  it  is,  would  be  reckoned  a  here»v,  a  sin, 
an  abomination  : — and  if  Catholic  he  crosses  himself  and  looks 
up  ;  and  if  Protestant  he  sighs,  and  half  fears  to  look  up. 

- How  is  it  now — is  yonder  education,  habitude,  reli¬ 
gion — what  you  will — beyond  waters,  needless,  encroaching, 
wrong  ;  or  is  it  right,  enduring,  and  tending  to  good  ?  Are 
those  Saxon-blooded  men,  who  say,  with  all  their  king-craft, 
and  self-love — this  day  of  21st  May,  and  all  such  days, 
counting  by  seven,  are  sacred  days,  wherein  no  such  sort  of 
work  shall  be  done, — are  they  weak,  short-sighted,  ignorant  in 
this  matter,  hardly  fit  to  be  taught  of  fetes  ;  or  are  they  phi¬ 
losophic,  right-minded,  working  well  ? 

Amusements,  walks,  park-riding,  they  may  wink  at ;  but  all 
this  clatter,  and  jingle,  and  defile  of  troops,  and  erection  of 


208 


The  Battle  Summer. 


altar-gods,  and  show  of  industry,  and  singing  of  Carmagnoles 
• — not  individual  matter,  but  a  tiling  of  which  Government  is 
stay  and  patron — is  it  all  tres  Men — very  well ;  or  is  it  all 
damnable  sin  ? 

And  the  stranger  goes  on  musing,  thus  ; — what  if  this  were 
there  ? 

—  And  if  there — across  the  straits — what  horror  !  what 
turning  away  of  eyes !  what  wondering  looks  !  what  fearful 
music-listeners  !  And  yet  here,  in  Paris,  what  joy,  mirth  and 
gladness  ! 

How  is  this  ?  The  day  which  is  here  mad  with  gaiety,  with 
gun-firing,  and  trumpet-blowing,  and  banquetting, — all  join¬ 
ing  in  it,  from  chief  of  command,  to  bar egr-gowned  grisette, 
there,  only  across  surging  Channel  waters,  and  he  is  run  mad 
in  earnest,  who  plays  but  half  the  gaiety.  Strange  -truly,  that 
such  difference  should  exist  in  the  matter  of  a  whole  seventh 
of  what  we  call  Time!  Yonder,  they  assign  it  over  with 
much  quiet,  hut  very  uniform  worship,  to  a  being  called  God ; 
and  here  they  make  it  one  time,  noisy  with  great  waters  at 
Versailles  ;  at  another,  with  Republic  ;  at  another,  with  sol¬ 
diery,  and  uniformly  round  it,  with  a  sort  of  Devil-worship  at 
theatre,  or  Bal  Mabil ! 

Is  there  not  something  by  chance,  in  this  odd  difference, 
worth  the  noting,  as  much  as  difference  in  hats  or  gloves  ? 
And  may  there  not  be  a  greater  matter  at  the  bottom  of  this 
difference,  than  French  priest-craft,  or  Constitution-makers 
seem  to  dream  of  ? 

But  the  fete  and  Sunday  are  rolling  on  together.  Dragoon 

/ 


A  Stranger’s  Thought. 


209 


and  car — citizen  and  soldier — tlie  music  and  tlie  banquetting 
are  at  length  quieted.  But  the  show  of  light  is  to  come. 

Not  till  nine,  or  thereabouts,  in  bright  nights  of  Paris 
May,  are  the  heavens  dark  enough  for  illumination.  At  that 
hour,  the  front  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  of  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies,  and  of  the  long  Hotel  of  the  Marine,  are  in  a 
blaze.  And  on  Champs  de  Mars,  the  rich  candelabras  are  hot 
with  Greek  fire  ;  and  the  colored  banners,  made  of  lampions, 
are  waving  in  the  night  wind,  like  brilliant-colored  silks.  The 
front  of  Military  School  is  like  a  forest  on  fire.  The  Champs 
Elysees  are  an  avenue  of  parti-colored  light ;  the  Boulevards 
are  a-blaze  with  private  illumination  ;  and  crowds  not  yet 
tired  with  the  day’s  feting  swarm  under — light  dresses  of 
summer  with  garlands  of  oak  leaves, — cockades  of  tri-color, 
and  red  tuft  of  cuirassiers  braken  hemlet,  waving  over  his 
shoulder,  and  tossing  and  flaring  behind,  as  he  gallops. 

There  is  roll  of  drum,  and  play  of  bugle ;  and  they  pause 
— and  play  again,  and  pass  together. 

At  ten,  from  the  top  of  the  Triumphal  Arch,  the  Bouquet  of 
light,  flings  up  its  fire-flowers  in  the  eye  of  all  Paris; — - 
Five  thousand  brilliant-colored  rockets  stream  up  from  a  single 
point — not  dying  in  a  moment,  nor  two, — nor  even  yet  gone  ; 
but  mounting  higher  and  higher,  of  all  colors — one  chasing 
another — bursting,  cracking,  renewing — hotter  and  hotter, — 
brighter  and  brighter, — higher  than  ever, — waving,  dancing, 
spreading, — lighting  ten  thousand  faces  turned  up  in  eager¬ 
ness — and  now,  finally — languishing — gone  out ! 

The  fete  is  ended.  The  pale,  cold  sky  of  May  shows  a 


210 


The  Battle  Summer. 


star  or  two  beaming  mildly  over  the  Arch  of  Triumph :  they 
are  now  the  onty  lights. 

Three  hundred  thousand  francs  have  been  spent  this  day  for 
lampions  only  ;  how  much  more  for  drapery,  for  banquet,  for 
pyramids,  for  statues,  for  fire-works,  the  purveyor’s  book  only 
can  show.  Yet,  to-morrow  these  clappers  of  hands  at  fire 
bouquet,  will  be  sour-faced,  and  asking  for  bread  ' 

- Surely  this  is  a  strange  people  ! 


XIII. 


A  Foreign  Spark. 


U  T  how,  after  all,  is  this  Polish  and  Italian  matter  to  be 


JLJ'  got  rid  of?  Did  not  this  French  Republic  say  in  the 
beginning — plain  as  words  could  say  it, — plain  as  the  old 
Girondin  Chambon*  said  it, — whatsoever  nation  shakes  off 


fetters  of  Despotism  is  sister  of  France,  and  shall  have  aid? 


- Or,  as  Lamartine  had  said  more  guardedly ; — if  the 

time  of  reconstruction  of  the  oppressed  nationalities  of  Eu¬ 
rope,  or  elsewhere,  appears  by  Providential  decree,  to  have 
come — if  Switzerland,  so  long  our  ally  is  menaced  ; — if  in¬ 
dependent  Italian  States  are  overrun,  or  if  limits  be  opposed 
to  their  internal  transformation— if  their  right  to  alliance 
among  themselves  for  the  consolidation  of  an  Italian  nationality 
be  questioned,  France  will  consider  herself  at  liberty  to  arm 


f.  Histoire  de  la  Revolution.  Thiers.  Convention. 


A  Foreign  Spark. 


211 


in  defence  of  movements  so  legitimate,  and  for  the  people’s 
nationality.* 

And  now  they  have  risen ;  they  have  quarrelled  about 
agreement ;  they  have  sent  off  Austrian  Radetzky  with  brick¬ 
bats,  and  stones  flying  after  him.  And  Naples  trying  what 
she  can  do  in  a  Democratic*way,  is  given  over  to  king,  and 
lazzaroni ;  and  Sicily  is  struggling,  and  wasting  the  best 
blood  of  Messina. 

But  the  Austrian  Radetzky  though  eighty,  and  over,  sits  as 
firmly  in  his  saddle  as  ever,  and  is  only  waiting  for  a  few 
more  huzzars,  and  grenadiers,  before  he  will  march  back  to 
meet  all  Lombardy,  and  all  Piedmont. 

And  French  Republicans,  mindful  of  that  Hotel  de  Ville 
proclamation  ;  and  Italians  talking  loud,  and  playing  briscola, 
— mindful  of  the  same — ask  what  shall  be  done  ? 

The  question  comes  into  the  Assembly  ;  Reactionists,  mo¬ 
derate  men,  haters  of  Lamartine,  will  be  glad  to  throw  his 
proclamation  in  his  teeth,  and  say  it  was  poetic  folly — a 
sympathy  unworthy  of  a  Statesman.  Rash  Republicans,  on 
the  other  hand,  glad  to  get  war, — glad  to  retain  the  sym  ¬ 
pathy  of  Democratic  neighbors,  say — go  on  ;  push  the  war  ; 
send  an  army  to  Piedmont. 

What  shall  the  Executive  do  t 

On  the  23d  of  May,  Lamartine  makes  reply ;  it  was  an¬ 
other  of  his  eloquent  harangues,  full  of  sympathy,  good  feeling, 
rich  expression,  plausibility,  rhetoric, — but  no  war,  and  no 
action. 


*  Trois  Mois  nu  P  oil  voir,  p.  76 


212  The  Battle  Sum  mje  r  . 

—  Whatever — says  he — may  have  been  the  moderation, 
the  reason,  the  high  intelligence  which  have  characterized  the 
purely  diplomatic  discussion  of  those  orators  who  have  pre¬ 
ceded  me,  it  is  for  me  a  sad  and  irksome  task  to  be  obliged  to 
touch  the  bleeding  wounds  of  a  friendly  people,  without  hav¬ 
ing  the  power  either  to  heal,  or  to  solace.* 

To  be  sure,  he  can  bestow  no  surgical  treatment  with  sharp 
cutting  instruments,  though  it  is  what  in  their  crisis  they  most 
need  ;  but  such  as  he  has — weak  sister-of-Ckarity  gruel — elo¬ 
quent  regrets,  and  God-specds  he  gives,  and  gives  cheerfully. 

Home  affairs  indeed  will  allow  nothing  further.  This  Re¬ 
public  which  has  given  the  cue  to  Italy,  is  not  yet  stand¬ 
ing  strong  enough  to  step  ;  how  then  can  it  venture  to  help 
neighbors  ? 

Aristocrats  and  Royalists,  are  not,  it  is  true,  very  threaten¬ 
ing  ;  but  there  is  an  army  of  some  hundred  thousand  workers 
paid  day  by  day,  and  grumbling  at  their  jaay ;  and  yet  their 
pay  must,  if  the  means  can  be  contrived,  be  stopped.  There 
are  ten  thousand  clamorous  red  men,  and  sympathizers  with 
Barbes,  busily  talking  in  corner  wine-shop,  and  in  St.  An¬ 
toine  cafes, — making  it  quite  necessary  to  keep  a  close  eye 
upon  the  National  Assembly,  and  upon  the  Tuilleries,  and 
even  upon  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 

But  all  this,  the  men  of  the  Cafe  de  France,  and  of  the 
Rue  de  Beaune  affect  not  to  see  : — the  bravos,  and  adhesions 
which  are  given  to  the  speech  of  the  Minister  in  the  Cham¬ 
ber,  do  not  follow  it  in  the  streets. 


*  Trois  ‘Mo is  au  Pouvoir ,  p.  222. 


Public  Workmen. 


213 


—  Comme  il  parle  bien — say  all  the  Faubourgs; — viais  il 
faut  agir! — a  capital  talker,  but  we  want  action  ! 

- And  action  shall  be  had,  men  of  Faubourgs  ! — but  not 

action  of  Foreign  Minister,  and  not  action  against  Radetzky  ! 

\  i 

xiy. 

Public  Workmen. 

MEANTIME  how  goes  on  our  magnificent  Luxembourg 
Congress  of  Labor,  and  how  the  Public  Workshops  ? 
Albert,  alas,  is  gone  early  from  his  labors.  Louis  Blanc, 
who  with  blue  eyes  and  pleasant  voice,  held  the  throne  seat 
under  the  frowning  shadow  of  Colbert,  and  l’Hopital,  is  busy 
making  out  his  defence, — for  he  too  may  go  to  Vincennes. 

With  the  chiefs  gone,  but  feeble  labor  is  done  by  the  Labor 
Commission.  Strong  men,  who  have  grown  into  glibness  of 
speech,  still  hold  on,  reasoning  as  well  as  they  may,  and  hav¬ 
ing  a  few  coachmen  and  masons,  forjudge  and  jury. 

The  better  part  of  the  Congress  have,  however,  taken  to 
hammer  and  chisel,  or  are  roaming  the  streets  crying  out  here 
and  there  for  a  Rrpublique  Sociale : — which  cry,  Louis  Blanc 
will  soon  say  that  he  never  encouraged. 

One  thing  is  certain,  these  delegates  are  getting  more  and 
more  dissatisfied  with  such  poor  shadow  of  Republic,  as  can¬ 
not  help  them  on  farther  and  faster.  Louis  Blanc  has  had 


214  The  Battle  Summer. 

his  little  grievances  to  complain  of — not  least  of  which  was— 
a  small  supply  of  funds. 

Certainly  it  has  arrived  at  this ; — either  that  the  Labor 
Commission  does  not  work  well  with  the  Republic  ; — or  that 
the  Republic,  such  as  it  is,  does  not  work  well  with  the  Com¬ 
mission  of  Labor.  No  more  upright  milliner  women  will  sit 
at  present  in  those  rich  seats  of  Peers,  listening  to  talk,  about 
dignity  of  labor  ;  and  no  more  coachmen  will  lose  their  time 
by  wandering  there  to  sit  on  committees,  which  amount  to  no¬ 
thing — fault  of  funds,  or  fault  of  Louis  Blanc. 

But  Public  Workshop  is  thriving  better, — indeed,  danger¬ 
ously  well.  They  report  now  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
men  on  the  roll ;  and  these  all  brigaded  and  platooned,  and 
keeping  up  fair  understanding  with  brigade  directors,  and  with 
chief.  Their  work  is  various ; — trundling  wheelbarrows  of 
earth  from  one  spot  to  another, — making  very  unnecessary 
excavations, — carrying  small  trees  on  their  backs  ;  and  within 
doors, — tailoring  and  shirt-making. 

These  last  indeed  have  paid  no  better  than  the  first :  shirts 
and  trowsers  selling  at  wholesale,  for  a  fraction  less  than  the 
cost  of  manufacture.  But  then  these  workmen  are  in  com¬ 
paratively  good  humor— the  lazy  ones  in  best  humor  of  all. 

It  is  a  very  gratifying  thing  to  them,  to  have  labor  secured 
to  them  in  such  very  happy  way. 

But  alas,  for  the  Republican  treasury — not  yet  resorting  to 
assignats,  and  with  difficulty  calling  in  its  forty-five  centime  ad¬ 
ditional  tax — these  workshops  are  terribly  expensive  !  With 
coffers  in  the  last  stages  of  depletion,  there  is  yet  no  resist- 

* 


Public  Workmen. 


215 


ing  the  calls  of  a  brigaded  army,  with  pick-axes  on  their 
shoulders. 

The  best  of  financial  advisers — and  Pages  himself  has  been 
banker — say  the  matter  can  never  go  on  :  but  Emile  Thomas, 
still  at  the  head  of  Public  Shops,  and  not  discontent  with 
that  high  responsibility,  says - it  had  better  go  on. 

The  Government  grows  shy  and  distrustful  of  those  one 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand,  clamorous  for  constant  pay,  and 
begins  to  talk  of  how  the  thing  shall  be  modified, — if  not  wholly 
done  away  with.  One  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  ears  are 
open,  and  get  an  inkling  of  this  new  discussion,  and  the  work¬ 
men  think  of  demonstration,  with  Emile  Thomas  at  their  head. 

in  this  juncture,  Emile  Thomas  has  a  sudden  mission  to 
Bordeaux  ;  but  no  sooner  arrived  at  Bordeaux,  than  he  is  put 
into  Provisional  prison ! — and  the  Ateliers  JVationaux  are 
without  a  head. 

Already  one  or  two  railways  have  been  absorbed  by  failing 
Government  funds  ;  and  so  the  Government  is  minded  to  send 
out  some  twenty  thousand  of  these  National  workers,  and  to 
see  if  they  cannot  labor  to  more  profit  in  cutting  Provincial 
railways,  than  in  loitering — wheelbarrow  in  hand — through 
the  shady  park  of  Monceau. 

Some  are  already  gone  ; — the  rest — says  Trelat  of  the 
Public  Works — are  going. 

—  Ah,  Monsieur  Trelat ; — your  Swiss-hatted  Gardiens  de 
Paris  are  not  strong  enough  to  make  them  go — nor  your  red¬ 
breasted  Republican  Guard  !  Ten  to  one  if  they  go  at  all. 

Truly,  this  scheme  of  labor  furnishing,  has  grown  into  a 


216 


The  Batti, e  Summer. 


monstrous  bug-bear  !  The  Provisional  Government  is  star¬ 
tled  by  the  phantom  it  has  raised  ; — another  goblin  water- 
carrier,  deluging  another  Famulus  ! 


XV. 


The  Private  Workman. 


THER  workers  are  not  so  content  as  public,  workers. 


v/  Bread  is  lacking.  There  is  no  scarcity  of  flour,  as  in 
the  old  time,  when  they  lmng  ropes  and  chains  from  the  door 
of  the  baker’s  house,  that  the  starvelings  might  come  up  in 
queue  ; — but  lack  of  employment. 

That  luxury  of  jewel-work,  and  cancan-making,  which 
occupied  so  many  nimble  fingers,  is  done.  The  shop-masters 
can  make  no  sales  ;  they  can  employ  no  workers  ; — yet  the 
workers  must  have  bread. 

Carriage-makers,  furniture-makers,  mcneusiers ,  gilders,  art¬ 
ists  of  all  shades  and  stamps, — poor  Italian  cast  sellers,  hand- 
organists,  florists,  the  best  of  modists,  tailors, — even  coif¬ 
feurs,  and  perfume-distillers,  are  losing  occupation  day  by  day. 

These  cast-off  workers,  wandering  in  the  shadows  of  the  Lux¬ 
embourg  Garden,  or  in  that  of  the  Tuillcries — pale  and  sickly, 
in  tattered  blouse, — watch  their  chance,  and  dart,  upon  you, 
when  none  are  looking — to  beg.  A  poor  fellow  jerks  off  his 
tattered  cap,  with  quick  motion  of  one  hand,  and  with  the 
other  held  nervously  trembling  toward  you — he  says,  glancing 


The  Private  Workmen. 


217 


again,  that  none  may  witness  such  shame  of  Paris  Artisan— 
For  God’s  sake,  Monsieur,  something — anything  to  buy  me  a 
bit  of  bread  ! 

- And  then  moves  up  the  portly,  well-fed  Republican 

Guard  of  this  princely  garden,  who  will  allow  no  begging  in 
it,  and  motions  to  the  tattered  blouse  and  the  extended  arm 
drops,  and  the  cap  goes  on  again  ;  but  the  eye,  full  of  sorrow 
and  vengeance,  glances  back  at  the  Guard. 

Is  there  a  good  feeling  growing  up  between  working  Re¬ 
publican,  and  Guard  Republican  ? 

And  perhaps  as  this  same  tatterdemalion  passes  out  by  the 
Palace,  he  will  see  within  the  plate  glass  of  the  Palace  win¬ 
dows,  some  delegate  to  Labor  Commission  standing  before  the 
marble  mantel,  a  hand  stuck  in  each  armlet  of  waistcoat, 
looking  easy  and  happy  ; — and  the  tatterdemalion  strolls  on- 
tears  dropping,  that  he  hides — and  saying,  under  breath — Et 
•pourtant ,  nous  sommcs  en  Republique ! — et  nous  y  sommes 
heureux! — knireux  ? — mais,  mon  Dieu!  que  nous  sommcs  mal- 
he.ureux  ! 


10 


Blouse  anb  Bourgeois* 


BLOUSE  AND  BOURGEOIS. 


I. 


Where  do  we  Stand? 


^HREE  months  of  Republican  rule  have  gone  by,  anti 


..a.  what  now  ? 

The  Palaces  are  all  standing ;  the  clocks  are  keeping  good 
Republican  time  ;  the  railway  engines  are  puffing  out  of  Paris, 
morning  after  morning,  in  good  English  fashion  ;  the  Seine 
current  is  undisturbed  ;  and  the  towers  of  Notre  Dame,  hang 
in  the  soft,  blue,  city  haze,  as  misty,  and  dream-like,  and 
beautiful  as  ever. 

The  Hotel  Dieu  is  as  full  of  sick  ones, — as  full  of  surgeons, 
— as  full  of  groans,  and  as  full  of  soft  gliding  sisters  of  Charity, 
as  before.  The  street  stones  are  as  clean  ; — the  Restaurants 
as  enticing  ; — the  wines  as  sparkling  ; — the  June  sun  as  warm  ; 
and  the  Lindens  in  the  Palace-garden  shake  out  their  tufts  of 
leaves,  in  the  summer  wind,  as  softly,  and  musically,  as  if  the 
King  were  still  a  King,  and  the  people  still  be- Kinged ! 


222 


The  Battle  Summer. 


But  this  is  not  all  that  makes  Paris,  nor  all  that  makes 
France. 

This  new  matter  of  a  Republic  is  not  yet  settled,  and  or¬ 
derly.  No  Constitution  is  made  :  no  officers  hold  by  other 
tenure  than  the  pleasure  of  the  Executive, — even  street- 
sweepers  may  lose  their  employ  to-morrow ;  and  poor  chiffo¬ 
niers,  who  had  once  a  monopoly  of  rag-gathering,  find  them¬ 
selves  out-generalled  by  strapping  women  of  the  Faubourg  St. 
Marceau. 

Beggary  is  loud  at  street  corners ;  and  the  new  police,  are 
so  new,  as  scarce  to  he  feared,  and  half  fearing  to  command. 
The  little  stall-man,  whose  whole  stock  in  trade  is  a  dingy  case 
or  two  of  worm-eaten  hooks,  trembles  each  morning  lest  his 
stock  may  he  destroyed,  or  an  emcute.  prevent  his  gains. 
The  florist  makes  up  no  bouquets,  which  may  lie  idle  in  his 
window  ;  and  the  modiste  of  the  Place  Vendome  sighs  over 
ostrich  feathers,  too  old  by  a  month. 

Yet  the  Republic  has  been  recognized  ;  ambassadors  to  the 
Republic  are  present; — talk  in  English  Journals  runs  upon 
the  Republic  ; — discussions  in  Foreign  parliaments  turn  upon 
the  Republic  ; — Church  doors  proclaim  in  black  letters,  the 
Republic  ;  and  the  Garde  Mobile  wear  the  Republic,  in  their 
schakos. 

And  what  has  the  Republic  done  ? 

- It  has  uttered  an  'eloquent  manifest  to  Foreign  Pow¬ 
ers  ;■ — it  has  stirred  all  Europe  into  blaze  ; — it  has  showered 
a  world  of  regrets  upon  poor  struggling  Italy  ; — it  has  sent 
surreptitiously,  a  cohort  of  vagabonds  into  Belgium  ; — it  has 


Where  do  we  Stand?  223 

exiled  the  King,  and  all  the  King’s  family ; — it  has  bought 
up  a  railway  or  two ; — it  has  drained  the  Treasury  ; — it  has 
declared  all  men  free  and  equal ; — it  has  scared  away  stran¬ 
gers  ; — it  has  organized  a  great  workshop  for  working,  and 
lazy  workmen  ; — it  has  called  together  a  stormy  company  of 
nine  hundred  men  to  make  a  Constitution  ; — it  has  turned  the 
King-palace  into  a  palace  for  wounded  workmen  ; — it  has  put 
a  vast  quantity  of  shirts  in  the  market  at  a  low  price  ; — it  has 
organized  a  new  army  of  twenty  odd  thousand  soldiers  ; — it 
has  abolished  death-punishment  for  political  offences  ; — it  has 
spoiled  the  trade  of  grisettes,  and  Mabil  goers ; — it  has 
changed  the  name  of  Foundling  Hospital,  to  Hospital  of 
Children  of  the  Republic  ; — but  with  all,  it  has  kept  promis¬ 
ing,  and  still  promises — well ! 

Distrust,  doubt,  confusion,  and  the  Republic  reign.  The 
distinction  between  Bourgeois,  and  Blouse,  has  been  drawn 
closer,  and  closer.  Instead  of  blending,  as  they  did  upon  the 
Barricades, — that  demonstration  of  April, — those  public  shops, 
that  Commission  of  Luxembourg, — that  affair  of  May, — and 
the  talk  in  clubs,  have  been  widening  very  fast  the  gap  be¬ 
tween  them. 

The  Blouse  looks  full  of  vengeance,  as  if  his  triumph  was 
lost ;  and  the  Bourgeois  looks  full  of  fear,  as  if  his  integrity, 
and  wealth,  and  station,  were  all  at  stake  ! 


224 


The  Battle  Summer 


II. 


New  Elections  and  New  Men. 

EW  Election  days  are  approaching  in  Paris,  to  fill 


JL  l  some  eight  or  nine  places  which  were  twice  filled  in 
April.  All  sorts  of  names  are  up  ;  and  all  sorts  of  clubs  are 
busy,  trying  to  carry  it  their  own  way. 

Street  corners  are  mobbed  with  talkers,  discussing  the  merits 
of  those  names,  which  in  green,  blue,  and  yellow  placards,  are 
staring  one  in  the  face  from  every  vacant  patch  of  wall. 

Among  others  is  that  of  Caussidiere,  whom  the  suspicions 
of  the  15th  May  had  deprived  of  his  place  of  Prefect,  and  who 
in  an  accession  of  virtuous  indignation,  had  thrown  up  his 
commission,  as  Member  of  Assembly. 

—  I  will  appeal,  said  he,  to  the  Paris  people  !  And  so, 
in  trim  moustache,  and  peaked  beard,  wearing  still,  slouching 
steeple-crowned  hat,  and  plaid  breeches, — a  fine,  heavy,  table 
specimen  of  a  man — he  smokes  his  cigar  complacently  in 
estaminets,  and  tries  his  fat  hand  at  billiards. 

Yet  this  man,  whom  if  you  were  to  enter  such  place  as 
Estaminet  de  Holland  where  the  old  ship  hangs  out,  under 
corridor  of  the  Palais  Royal,  and  see  in  shirt  sleeves, — you 
might  take  for  patron  of  the  establishment,  will  lead  the  list, 
and  will  be  elected  by  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  votes  ! 


New  Elections  and  New  Men.  225 


- A  short-lived  triumph  for  him ;  unless - hut  we 

must  not  anticipate. 

The  Constitutionnel  and  Debats  have  hung  out  their  pla¬ 
cards,  and  pasted  them  on  the  Porte  St.  Martin,  and  the 
Porte  St.  Denis ;  and  they  are  torn  down  as  fast  as  they  can 
be  pasted  up.  Yet  for  all  this,  their  candidates  will  be  elected. 

- Among  them,  Goudchaux,  a  Jew  by  birth, — keen, 

black-eyed, — an  accomplished  banker, — a  true  conservative, 
— a  lover  of  Bourgeois  property,  and  properties. 

Changarnier  is  another,  who  has  fought  bravely  in  Algiers, 
— a  strong,  middle-aged,  firm-feeling  man, — too  great  a  hater 
of  Canaille  ; — he  will  not  fear  to  load  with  grape,  if  the 
struggle  should  come  to  that, — and  before  long,  it  may.  He 
will  turn  up  into  a  sort  of  Dumouriez,  without  his  victories, 
and — as  circumstances  alone  direct — without  his  fate. 

Thiers  too,  though  the  talk  is  rancorous  against  him  in  all 
Republican  clubs,  on  all  street-corners,  and  in  sans-culotte 
journals, — so  that  even  his  house  is  beset  by  threatening  in¬ 
dividuals  in  blouse,  who  eye  askance  the  tall,  iron  palisades 
of  his  garden  ; — yet  he  shall  be  elected, — not  only  in  Paris, 
but  in  two  Departments  beside. 

Victor  Hugo,  a  peer  of  France  (of  Louis  Philippe’s  mak¬ 
ing)  will  also  be  elected,  in  the  face  of  all  Faubourg  clubs, 
and  in  the  face  of  scowling  St.  Antoine,  which  is  near  by  his 
home.  But  Republican  praise  has  been  distilled  out  of  his 
later  verse,  and  this  it  is,  which  has  made  his  name  popularly 
passable,  even  in  the  crowded  Rue  St.  Martin,  and  in  the 
student  quarter,  by  the  Pantheon. 

10* 


226 


The  Battle  Summer. 


Pierre  Leroux  too,  with  shock  of  hair,  like  well-used  mop 
dried  in  the  sun ;  and  Lagrange  with  Indian  hair,  like  new 
mop,  wet,  and  lank-hanging, — are  both  elected  by  what  they 
call  socialist  voices — a  queer,  and  hard-to-be-sifted  compound 
of  influences — and  both  will,  within  the  week,  be  sitting,  strong 
as  any,  on  the  high,  green  benches  to  the  Left  of  the  speaker, 
which  they  call  the  Mountain. 

Prudhon  closes  the  socialist  list ;  Prudhon,  editor  of  the 

Reprcscnlant  du  Peuple  ; - who  believes  that  property  is  a 

humbug, — or  even  worse — a  robbery.  And  he  believes  too 
— worse  belief  than  that  of  old  Jacob  Dupont,*  which  so 
shocked  good  Mrs.  Hannah  More,  and  turned  a  bright  period 
in  Burke’s  “  Reflections” — that  Christianity  is  a  humbug  of 
even  worse  dye. 

—  Fifty  years  hence — says  he,  when  fairly  in  his  place — 
and  Christianity  and  right  to  property  will  be  exploded 
fancies  !f 

This  man — it  is  worthy  to  record — finds  in  the  enlightened, 
and  Catholic  city  of  Paris,  seventy-seven  thousand  and  ninety- 
four  voters  who  say  that  he  is  the  man  to  represent  them  ! 

*  Histoire  du  Convention ,  Dec.  14,  1792. 

|  Moniteur.  Compte-rendu  Juillet  18,  1848. 


A  Handsome  German. 


227 


III. 


A  Handsome  German. 


YET  one  other — not  noticeable  by  talent,  that  we  know 
of,  as  yet,  or  even  by  history  very  noticeable,  is 
among  the  new  elect.  And  he  is  destined  to  make  more  noise 
than  any  of  them ; — to  stir  deeper  and  wider  this  easily 
stirred  Paris  people,  and  French  people,  than  even  Pierre 
Leroux,  or  the  famous  Thiers. 

Not  one  in  a  thousand  of  the  eighty  odd  thousand, *  who 
vote  his  name,  have  ever  seen  him, — much  less  heard  him  ; 
— they  have  not  even  read  what  he  may  have  written. 

He  is  even  a  stranger  in  Paris,  though  he  was  born  in  it ; 
and  he  would  lose  himself  in  going  the  course  of  the  green 
omnibusses,  that  run  from  the  Pantheon  to  the  Chaussee 
d’Antin. 

His  accent,  if  he  were  to  ask  his  way,  would  betray  a  touch 
of  foreign  blood  ;  and  the  street  woman,  whom  he  would  ask, 
would  say  to  his  sandy  moustache,  and  his  gutteral  ach, — voila 
un  lei  Allemand ! — there  goes  a  handsome  German  ! 

He  has  had  nothing  to  do  with  setting  up  this  Republic, 
nor  with  pulling  down  the  fore-gone  King.  His  picture 
is  not  in  any  Louvre  collection,  or  those  of  Versailles  ;  and 
his  name  is  on  no  public  record,  except  the  criminal  court- 
roll. 


*  84,420.  Moniteur. 


22S 


The  Battle  Summer. 


He  has  not  lived  long  enough  to  be  venerable  ;  nor  is  he 
young  enough  to  be  politically  new.  He  has  not  been  edi¬ 
tor,  nor  Journalist,  nor  Republican  conspirator,  nor  mad  So¬ 
cialist  ; — nor  has  he  fought  battles,  or  glorified  France. 

French  himself,  by  accident  as  much  as  any  way,  he  had 
yet  neither  French  father,  nor  French  grandfather;  and  his 
mother’s  line  had  sprung  from  islands,  as  far  from  France  as 
Labrador,  or  the  Carribean  Sea. 

Though  he  took  such  hold  on  French  sympathy,  his  habits 
were  all  English  habits.  At  the  very  time  they  will  be  voting 
for  him  pell-mell, — struggling  to  drop  his  name  in  first  at 
Paris  Mairies, — he  will  be  riding  on  English  blooded  horse, — - 
in  English  Stultzes  coat, — within  English  city  park, — chat¬ 
ting  gaily  with  the  most  aristocratic  of  English  Hyde-park 
riders  ! 

How  came  all  this  then  ? 

- By  name,  simply  and  purely  ; — name  of  Louis  Na¬ 
poleon  Bonaparte  !  Will  he  be  suffered  to  come  ;  and  if  he 
come,  what  will  become  of  him  ?  This  is  the  topic  in  all  sa¬ 
lons,  for  all  Paris  quidnuncs. 


An  Old  Stager. 


229 


\ 


IV. 


An  Old  Stager. 


2  TR ANGERS  in  the  city, — and  there  are  many  beside 


kJ7  the  curious  Western  looker-on — whom  fete,  and  Assem¬ 
bly,  and  Constitution-making  have  drawn  to  the  great  Baby¬ 
lon,  will  have  been  earnest  to  see  the  in-coming  of  the  new 
company  of  members  ; — most  of  all,  to  see  the  man  Thiers, — 
thrust  aside  at  the  first,  but  now,  by  half  re-acting  Republic, 
drawn  into  the  state  Maelstrom. 

- Leaning  over  from  your  narrow  seat  aloft,  in  the  gal¬ 
lery-tribune,  you  see  them  coming : — you  ask  your  neighbor 
names  : — you  hear  them  with  eager  watchfulness,  even  to  that 
of  wild-faced  Lagrange  ;  and  your  eyes  cling  fixedly  to  the 
men,  drinking  up  in  swift,  deep  gaze,  the  memories  and  ima¬ 
ginations  of  years. 

Thiers  has  not  yet  come  ;  your  pulse  beats  high  with  ex¬ 
pectation,  as  with  a  rapid  soul-effort,  you  run  over  those  his¬ 
tories — those  speeches,  which  in  your  mind,  till  now,  have 
made  the  man.  All  this  is  presently  to  have  an  end.  The 
idea,  belonging  to  the  imagination,  is  now  to  be  made  palpa¬ 
ble,  and  is  to  belong  henceforward  to  the  eye. 

- And  now  your  complaisant  neighbor  whispers  quickly, 

touching  your  shoulder,  and  looking  eagerly  himself, — It  voila  ! 
— there  goes  Thiers  ! 


230 


The  Battle  Summer. 


- What !  the  little  sleek,  bow-legged,  gray-haired  man, 

marching  in  yonder,  in  drab  breeches,  with  body  too  long  for 
his  legs, — smiling  here  and  there,  and  ducking  his  head  all 
about  him ! 

Aye,  even  so  !  it  is  verily  the  Historian,  the  Politician,  the 
Financier,  the — what  you  please!  Feast  your  eyes  on  him 
now, — the  man  who  has  carried  you  through  old  Revolution 
with  high,  springy  step,  and  gloriously  through  the  campaigns 
of  Napoleon,  at  exhilarating  pace,  by  his  mere  pen,  is  now 
yonder  on  his  own  legs,  backing  up  a  host  of  timid  Bourgeois, 
and  associate  Deputies,  and  Club-men,  amid  the  storms  and 
troubles  of  this  history  which  is  being  acted  ! 

- A  smooth,  chubby  face,  surely,  for  a  man  of  sixty,  or 

thereabouts  !  and  his  lips  rounded  into  a  half  smile,  or  grim¬ 
ace,  seem  well  calculated  to  lie  around  a  pipe  stem,  or  to  hold 
tenaciously  small  pieces  of  money. 

Where  is  all  the  military  aplomb,  that  told  such  grand 
things  of  military  daring,  and  of  great  captains,  and  that 
made  you  think  him  one  of  them  ?  Where  is  all  the  heavy, 
denunciatory  manner  that  has  split  strong  cabinets  like  a 
thunder  blast  ? 

—  En  etes  vous  sur — are  you  sure,  my  dear  Sir,  that  the 
short  man  yonder,  with  his  foot  now  across  his  knee,  in  yellow 
gaiters — rubbing  his  shin, — looking  complacently  through  his 
spectacles  across  the  hall, — smiling,  chatting  with  his  neigh¬ 
bor, — are  you  sure  it  is  the  great  Monsieur  Thiers  ? 

—  Bien  sur — there  is  no  manner  of  doubt  that  it  is  he  ; 
mais  pas  grand — but  not  after  all  so  great ;  il  est  petit  hcmme 


An  Old  Stager. 


1231 


— he  is  a  little  man  ; — less  certainly,  by  very  much,  than  you 
would  have  thought  him  ! 

Seeing  him  in  the  street,  wagging  his  way  through  the 
Chaussee  d’Antin,  in  large  white  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes,  his 
head  turned  down, — his  fingers  on  each  side  snapping  and 
twirling, — liable  to  be  run  down  by  stout  fish-women,  or  to 
be  upset  by  large,  intrusive  dogs, — now  and  then  lifting  his 
head,  and  setting  back  his  spectacles  for  a  good  squint  before 
him  ; — you  would  say  complacently  to  yourself,  while  you 
cocked  your  hat  with  a  knowing  air, — there  goes  a  dapper  lit* 
tic  draper  who  knows  what’s  what, — who  has  his  head  full  of 
some  good  tape  bargain, — counting  up  even  now  the  six¬ 
pences  of  profit  on  his  finger  ends  ! 

- So  unwisely  we  lookers-on  read  men  ! 

He  is  counting  kings  on  his  fingers,  and  reckoning  armies 
in  his  head ! 

Yet  for  all,  he  is  a  rare  trader  ;  if  not  draper,  he  would 
have  made  a  keen  money-making  draper.  He  knows  of 
stocks,  and  what  to  buy,  and  when  to  sell.  He  knows  about 
premium  shares,  and  newspaper  account  of  sale.  He  knows 
of  dividends  in  bond,  and  cash  dividends.  He  keeps  an  eye 
on  exchanges,  and  is  not  afraid  of  every  commercial  editor’s 
account  of  a  fall  in  consols. 

More  thamthis,  he  has  studied  the  Phisiologie  clu  Gout ; 
he  knows  Chambertin  from  Tonnerre,  and  Lafitte  from  base 
country  Medoc  ;  and  his  cellars  are  not  ill-stocked  with  both 
one  and  the  other. 

He  knows  a  ragout  from  Palais  R oyal  stews,  and  he  loves 


232 


The  Batti  2  Summer. 


a  quiet  table  rounded  with  friends  from  the  Rue  de  Poitiers — 
many  of  them  attracted  very  likely,  by  the  winning  graces  of 
the  charming  Madame  Thiers. 

And  this  is  the  man  about  whom  we  have  heard  so  much, 
and  had  so  much  journalizing,  and  so  many  biographic  pic¬ 
tures,  from  that  of  Cormenin,  under  shadow  of  Timon,  to 
that  of  the  keen  Homme  de  Ricn  ■* 

And  what  is  he  doing  now  on  Republican  benches  ?  Little 
as  yet ;  but  he  will  have  his  task-work.  Those  grinning  and 
scowling  philosophers  of  the  Mountain  will  give  him  task¬ 
work  ;  he  will  pound  their  pamphlets  with  his  pestle  of  a  pen. 

And  if  he  speaks,  as  he  will  do,  the  soul-man  will  stand 
out  from  that  small  body,  large  as  the  largest  of  those  Repre¬ 
sentative  men.  You  will  forget  spectacles,  and  chubby  face, 
and  bow-legs,  and  gray  gaiters,  as  the  torrent  of  words  comes 
flowing  quick,  and  sharp,  and  strong,  and  the  Httle  fat  hand, 
forgetful  of  Bordeaux-wine  glass,  clutches  at  the  cushion  of 
the  tribune,  or  gathers  into  a  hardened  fist,  shaken  aloft  with 
a  nervous,  earnest  tremor,  that  makes  it  seem  the  fist  of  a 
Cyclop !  v 

Ungenerous,  self-willed,  vain,  bending  all  things  to  his 
economic  notions  of  self  and  money,  he  is  yet  quick  as  light¬ 
ning, — erudite  as  Academician,  and  strong  as  a  giant !  With 

*  It  is  perhaps  worth  while  to  remark  that  this  portrait  of  Thiers  (.par  un 
Homme  de  Rien )  is  one  of  the  best.  It  was  translated  with  several  others  by 
Robert  Walsh,  Jr.,  some  years  since,  and  published,  I  think,  in  Philadelphia. 
The  same  portraiture  was  stolen  by  a  recent  contributor  (1847)  to  the  Dublin 
Magazine,  and  the  American  Review. 


An  Old  Stager. 


233 


no  enthusiasm,  and  but  little  imagination,  all  his  figures  are, 
as  Brougham  says  of  Burke,  like  sparks  from  the  engine — 
and  very  few  sparks  at  that.  No  fire  is  wasted  overhead  ; — 
no  steam  goes  to  whistle,  but  all  to  motion  and  to  progress. 

Statistics  are  a  sport  to  him  ;  he  weaves  them  into  such 
fine  net-work  as  catches  every  loose  word  of  the  unwary. 

A  question  or  an  interruption  lights  him  ;  he  dashes  it  into 
his  text,  and  flings  his  analogies  about  it,  so  as  to  make  it  a 
new  jewel  in  the  crowning  of  his  argument.  An  ugly  objec¬ 
tion,  suggested  to  break  his  connection,  is  disposed  of  like 
those  hard  burning  bodies — as  platina,  or  stone,  which  chem¬ 
ists  put  between  the  poles  of  their  magnetic  battery  ; — no 
sooner  are  the  plates  soused  in  the  acid  vat,  than — whiff— a 
blaze — and  the  obstruction  is  gone  ! 

Yet  withal  he  is  of  old,  and  economic  sort ;  no  warm  human 
sympathy  lights  him  to  charity  or  benevolence.  He  abides 
by  ancient  formulas.  He  reasons  from  premises  that  the 
men  of  progress  are  questioning,  if  not  utterly  denying.  By 
them  he  had  his  education  ;  by  them  his  mind,  flexible,  but 
uniform,  has  moulded  itself.  His  sympathies  are  to  him  tho 
promptings  of  his  judgment ;  and  his  judgment  always  guides 
his  sympathy. 

What  Machiavelli  was  to  Florence,  Thiers  is  to  France. 

Lamartine  he  looks  upon  as  a  quick-witted  poetaster. 
When  Lamartine  talks  of  Government,  Thiers  regards  him 
as  a  pedagogue  regards  a  precocious  urchin  at  declamation. 
When  he  talks  of  Diplomacy,  Thiers  trembles  to  see  edge- 
tools  in  the  hand  of  a  child.  And  when  Lamartine  talks  of 


~34  The  Battle  Summed. 

Finance.  lie  smiles,  as  a  man  smiles  at  a  boy,  who  is  trying  to 
set  sixpences  on  edge  ! 

But  vrliat  sense  has  he  after  all  of  the  thing  that  is  doing, 
or  the  things  to  be  done  r  Very  little,  if  any  at  all. 

With  him,  society  divides  itself  into  a  great  mass  of  ham¬ 
merers  of  leather,  and  a  great  mass  of  Bourgeois  coiners  of 
money  ;  and  Government  is  so  to  manage  formulas,  Military 
and  Diplomatic,  as  to  keep  the  peace,  and  enable  these  two 
halves  of  our  world  to  go  on — the  one  coining  money, — and 
the  other — poor  devils — hammering  leather  to  the  end  ! 

Republic  is  with  him  merest  name — idle  and  harmful  name 
— perhaps  to  be  tolerated,  but  that  is  to  be  proved.  The 
thing  is,  to  govern.  Suffrage  is  a  question  of  mere  economic 
expedients.  Bread-eating  is  purely  a  matter  of  bread-get¬ 
ting  ;  and  bread-getting  a  thing  of  hire  and  pay,  with  which 
Government  has  little  or  nothing  to  do. 

Some  Queen  of  France  was  told  that  the  laborers  lacked 
food. 

—  Mon  Dieu  ! — said  she — why  do  they  not  buy  some  of 
those  dear  little  buns  ? 

- A  remarkable  Queen  ! — as  deft  a  talker  as  M. 

Thiers ! 

The  idea  that  because  more  than  half  the  world  have  been 
these  two  or  three  hundred  years  past,  living  hardly, — getting 
work  and  bread  when  they  could, — knowing  little,  and  hoping 
less. — that  now  these  same  should  step  forward  to  get  a  little 
vigorous  help,  and  to  lend  a  hand  to  Government  on  their 
own  account,  is  to  INI.  Thiers,  a  thing  unprecedented,  without 


Almost  Eheuu. 


235 


analogy,  not  in  the  books,  indefensible,  and  only  to  be  toler¬ 
ated  on  voluntary  compliance  of  whoso  may  be  concerned,  or 
— for  that  matter — not  concerned  ! 

Not  in  any  sense  is  he  a  man  for  the  Time, — but  rather  for 
times  gone  ; — a  mummy — a  most  flexile,  and  India-rubber 
mummy,  from  the  old  tombs  ! 

This  wide  world-stir, — tending  under  God,  to  something 
better  as  ultimatum,  than  was  before — touches  him  no  more 
then  galvanism  touches  a  dead  mass  ; — a  stir — a  shudder — a 
spasmodic  gesture, — and  the  old  sluggishness  comes  back  ! 

His  soul  with  all  its  subtlety,  and  cramful,  as  it  is  of  ex¬ 
pedients,  is  not  wide,  nor  expansive,  nor  philanthropic. 

He  has  no  reach  in  him.  He  has  no  love  in  him. 

Yet  is  he  excellent  Academician — making  essays  that  will 
live,  and  speeches  that  will  jingle  harmoniously  beside  the 
best  of  speeches.  Truly  mankind  have  all  their  uses  ! 

So  Thiers  shall  have,  and  does  have  his.  But  for  the 
present  we  leave  him  on  his  green  seat,  half  way  up  the  right 
bank  of  benches — quiet,  and  smiling,  and  rubbing  his  shin  ! 


Almost 


V. 

Emeute. 


IS  it  Poland  again,  or  is  it  Italy  that  makes  all  the  street- 
world  gather,  on  the  Monday  after  election,  on  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde,  and  upon  Champs  Elysees,  and  along  the 


236 


The  Battle  Summer. 


Boulevards,  so  that  the  omnibuses  cannot  pass,  and  the  rappel 
is  beaten,  and  Emile  Thomas,  Chief  of  Guard,  is  out  in  his 
dress  of  Generalissimo,  showing  himself  pompous,  and  noisy, 
and  irate  ? 

No  !  it  is  simply  the  old  question  of  quid-nuncs  ;  will  the 
new  man  Louis  Napoleon  be  admitted  to  the  Chamber,  or  will 
he  not  ?  The  Assembly  is  busy  discussing  it.  Outside  the 
opinion  is  floating,  that  the  vote  of  the  eighty  odd  thousand 
will  be  negatived  in  the  worst  shape  ;  viz.,  by  exiling  the 
Prince,  and  so  condemning  him  to  the  same  limbo  with  Louis 
Philippe,  and  sons. 

There  are  strong  speakers  within  the  Chamber  for  such 
action,  and  strongest  among  them,  and  most  eloquent,  is 
Ledru  Rollin. 

—  It  is  dangerous, — says  he — for  such  a  man,  having  such 
a  name  to  be  among  us  ;  therefore  let  us  banish  him  !* 

But  Louis  Napoleon  is  not  without  his  advocates  ; — fore¬ 
most  among  them  is  his  lively  cousin,  Napoleon  Bonaparte, 
son  of  Jerome.  He  is  a  short,  brusque,  quick-witted,  quick¬ 
speaking  man,  who  has  forehead,  and  face  so  like  his  great 
uncle,  that  you  might  easily  believe  he  sat  for  half  the  pictures 
of  the  Emperor.  He  speaks  vigorously,  and  with  passion, — his 
nands  flying  about  his  head,  or  pounding  vehemently  upon  , the 
cushion  of  the  Tribune. 

Another,  is  a  singular  advocate — Jule  Favres — an  advocate 
by  profession.  He  has  been,  it  is  true,  in  the  new  Cabinet ; 


♦  Monilcur.  Seance  du  13  Juin. 


237 


Almost  Emeute. 

but  in  this  matter,  he  is  firm  against  Ledru  Rollin,  and  Gov¬ 
ernment  action. 

He  is  the  last  man  you  would  suspect  of  enthusiasm.  He 
is  tall,  and  his  figure  as  wiry,  and  graceless  as  a  country 
school-master’s.  He  wears  black  coat,  thread-bare  ;  black 
pantaloons,  thread-bare  ;  black  waistcoat,  thread-bare  ;  and  his 
face  and  hands  are  also  thread-bare  !  Add  to  this,  a  rumpled 
white  cravat,  and  blue  spectacles  with  enormous  rims,  under 
which  he  peeps  out  upon  the  House,  following  his  pleas  with 
true  lawyer-like  glances,  and  you  have  a  portrait  of  one  of  the 
ugliest,  and  yet  one  of  the  most  nervous,  and  pointed  speak¬ 
ers  of  the  Constitutional  Chamber. 

His  speech  this  day  for  Napoleon,  is  sound,  direct,  and 
lawyer-like. 

Moreover,  the  street  is  full  of  orators — not  as  lawyer-like, 
or  as  sound,  but  more  heated,  and  earnest  than  even  the 
spectacled  Favres.  Those  eighty  thousand  voters, — many  of 
them  bewhiskered  veterans  of  the  old  Guard  Imperial — are 
clamorous  for  the  instation  of  their  favorite. 

The  Government  and  Chamber  waver  :  a  whiff  of  Lamar¬ 
tine’s  impassioned  talk  that  told  yesterday  of  guns,  and  blood, 
and  that  stirred  up  a  little  spirit  for  Republicanism,  and  a 
little  jealousy  of  Napoleonism,  has  all  evaporated  under  Jules 
Favres’  cutting  periods. 

It  is  decided  to  admit  the  new  member  ;  and  a  bravo  runs 
over  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  nor  dies  wholly,  until  it  has 
reached  the  further  end  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine. 

The  next  day  the  President  of  the  Chamber  has  a  letter  to 


238 


The  Battle  Summer. 


read,  from  the  newly  elected ,  it  is  somewhat  dubious,  but 
worthy  to  be  placed  on  record  : — 

“  Monsieur  le  President  : 

“  I  learn,  as  I  am  on  the  point  of  setting  out  for  Paris, 
“  that  my  election  is  made  a  pretext  for  disorder.  1  did  not 
“  seek  the  honor  of  being  named  Representative,  because 
“  aware  of  the  injurious  suspicions  that  rested  upon  me  ; 
“  much  less  did  I  seek  the  power. 

“  If  however,  thfe  people  impose  upon  me  duties,  I  shall 
“  know  how  to  fulfil  them.  But  I  disavow  all  the  ambitious 
“  designs  which  some  attribute  to  me. 

“  My  name  is  a  symbol  of  order,  of  nationality,  of  glory, 
“  and  it  would  be  with  the  liveliest  grief  that  I  should  see  it 
“  made  subservient  to  national  disorder.  To  avoid  such 
“  hazard,  I  choose  to  rest  in  exile,  and  am  willing  to  sacrifice 
u  everything  for  the  happiness  of  France.” 

This  is  doubtfully  received  ; — talked  of  in  all  cafes,  in  all 
journals,  in  corridors  of  Assembly,  and  at  evening,  in  all  salons. 

Jules  Favres  rubs  his  blue  spectacles  to  read  it  over  a 
second  time  ;  Prudhon  rubs  his  white  ones — that  broad  mouth 
of  his  growing  broader  and  broader,  until  in  humorsome, 
good-natured  contempt,  it  has  reached  from  whisker  to  whis¬ 
ker.  Thiers  listens,  with  an  odd  smile  playing  about  his 
nether  lip — glances  piteously  on  the  banc  of  ministers  be¬ 
low,  and  nudges  his  neighbor  Barrot,  as  much  as  to  say — 
Voyons  ce  qu'il  fcra^maintenant , — notre  pauvre  Lamartine  ! 
— And  what  will  our  poor  Lamartine  be  at  now  ? 


Salon  and  Salon  People. 


239 


But  a  new  light  breaks  on  the  Assembly  ;  for  the  next  day, 
lo,  another  Napoleon  letter  !  It  has  not  come  by  post,  but 
the  President  has  made  inquiries  as  to  who  was  carrier,  and 
finds  him  to  be  a  man  of  letters — a  certain  Briffaut,  who  left 
this  same  Louis  Napoleon  only  twenty-four  hours  back,  and 
who  can  be  seen  at  the  Hotel  de  Hollande,  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix. 

In  this  second  letter  he  is  proud  of  the  honor  of  his  elec¬ 
tion  ;  he  hopes  that  quiet  times  are  not  far  distant,  when  he 
may  return,  as  one  of  the  humblest  of  French  citizens ;  but 
for  the  present,  he  begs  leave  to  decline  the  proffered  seat  of 
Representative. 

It  is  a  genuine  letter,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  for  Briffaut  is 
there  at  the  Hotel  de  Hollande,  ready  to  take  oath  to  its 
authenticity. 

And  now  the  long  faces  of  the  Executive  become  shorter. 

It  is  the  sixteenth  day  of  June,  and  the  air  is  warm  and 
mild. 

Napoleon  half-emeute  is  well  got  over ! 


VI. 

Salon  and  Salon  People. 

WHAT  next  ? — Everybody  is  asking,  not  only  in  cor¬ 
ridor  of  Assembly,  but  in  street,  in  salon, — outside, 
in  vineyards,  in  little  guingettes  ic  banlieu  cafes,  in  clubs 


240 


The  Battle  Summer. 


of  Palais  Royal,  and  of  Institute — even  in  the  Institute 
itself. 

And  yet  it  is  strange  that  at  this  Institute,  the  home  of  such 
men  as  Arago,  and  Leverrier ;  and  at  the  Sorbonne  where 
may  be  heard  such  talkers  as  Michelet,  and  Mignet,  and  Gi- 
rardinj — wherever  in  short,  science  is  pursuing  its  labors, 
there  is  no  interruption. 

- Take  your  stand  on  the  bridge  of  the  Institute  of  a 

Monday,  and  you  will  see  drive  down  into  the  courts,  between 
the  flimsy  stalls  of  old  map  and  print-sellers,  those  carriage  loads 
of  green-broidered  coats,  which  used  to  adorn  the  court  of 
Napoleon,  and  of  Charles  X.,  and  of  Louis  Philippe  ;  and  you 
will  see  in  the  hall  of  Assemblage,  even  in  these  unquiet  times, 
a  sprinkling  of  that  fashion  and  taste,  which  affected  science 
under  the  fixed  reign  of  a  King. 

Yet  half  of  those  broidered  coats  will  in  three  hours  time 
be  changed  for  the  black  coats  of  National  Assembly ;  and 
the  quiet  listening  to  yonder  mumbling  reader  of  long  scien¬ 
tific  discourse,  will  be  shaken  off  utterly,  for  the  heat  of 
political  action. 

So  in  the  Conservatoire  of  the  damp,  dirty  Rue  St.  Mar¬ 
tin,  throngs  of  men  and  women  of  the  blouse -clan,  will  file 
around  tumultuously  through  those  intricate,  winding  courts, 
— crowd  up  the  stair-way — seat  themselves, — talk  low,  and 
busily,  waiting  with  student-like  patience  an  hour,  or  half- 
hour,  for  some  plain,  black-coated  lecturer  to  step  in  below 
there,  among  his  jars,  and  bottles,  and  talk  to  them  a  full 
hour  of  gases  and  elements ; — then  up,  and  out,  noisy,  into 


Salon  and  Salon  People. 


241 


street-life  with  its  brag,  and  batter  ; — into  political  life  with  its 
King-killing,  and  bread-seeking — earnest  as  ever  once  more. 

Strange  heart  and  mind  of  people  ! — analyzing  quietly,  in¬ 
tently,  in  face  of  death  ; — pushing  minutest  inquiries,  with 
observation  nervously  accurate,  while  the  tocsin  is  sounding  ! 
It  was  so  in  the  old  time  of  the  blood-floods  ;  Lavoisier,  a 
name  hallowed  by  chemists,  plead  for  an  hour  or  two’s  reprieve 
from  death,  to  complete  an  unfinished  experiment  and 
Chappe  was  making  his  telegraph,  in  a  house  where  they  kept 
the  guillotine ! 

In  the  Hospitals  it  is  the  same :  Nurses  and  Doctors  are 
studying  hard  at  death-beds,  and  put  on  spectacles  to  examine 
a  tongue  that  has  ceased  to  vibrate.  They  probe  coolly,  with 
still  hands,  wounds  that  are  letting  in  death  :  they  rub  hands 
and  chuckle  at  new  cases — fearing  death  may  come  be¬ 
fore  the  diagnosis  is  made ;  and  fearing  recovery  lest  some 
post  mortem  verification  may  escape  them.  Old  Roux  will 
take  off  a  jaw, — gesturing  to  his  eager  class  with  the  bloody 
chisel,  and  the  next  day  he  will  move  up  in  bis  round,  a  little 
curious,  to  the  man’s  bed.  But  it  is  vacant. 

—  II  est  mort — he  is  dead — says  the  Hospital  attendant. 

—  Diablc  !  est  il  mort  ? — The  D — 1  he  is  ! — says  the  sur¬ 
geon  ; — and  he  takes  snuff! 

All  this  is  happening  day  after  day,  and  week  after  week,  in 
the  face  of  stich  dangers,  and  changes,  as  lie  dimly  shadowed 
in  the  future  ! — changes  too,  which  in  the  salons  of  these  so 
eminent  lecturers  and  surgeons,  will  be  at  the  top  of  all  con¬ 
versation. 

VOL.  i.  11 


242 


The  Battle  Summer. 


Government  itself  has  to  endure  the  halting,  doubting,  per¬ 
plexed  Salon-life. 

There  are  the  official  receptions,  stiff  as  new  receptions  must 
he, — guarded  as  authorities  of  uncertain  duration  must  needs 
make  them  ;  split  up  into  strange  groupings, — ceremonious  as 
the  worst  of  King  receptions,  and  courtly  as  the  worst  of  courts. 
Stiff  little  Republicans  strut  about  as  if  in  togas  ;  and  as  if  our 
world  was  re-made  for  them,  and  in  no  small  degree,  by  them. 
Here  and  there  you  see  one,  of  honest  faith,  but  untaught  of 
courtly  habit,  studying  curiously  the  prim  representatives  of 
such  small  King-ship,  and  Queen-ship,  as  the  Paris  whirlwind 
has  left  behind  it. 

-  You  have  seen  a  stout  butcher  dog,  eye  naively, 

some  little  Italian  puppet-hound,  with  Russia  morocco 
collar,  a  dainty  cloth  blanket ; — you  have  seen  him  ap¬ 
proach,  and  smell  of  the  trappings,  and  the  little  hound 
dance  about,  as  if  proud  of  his  grace  : — it  is  the  new  Repub¬ 
lican,  and  the  old  Courtier,  at  the  salon-receptions  of  June  ! 

The  most  of  Tuilleries  etiquette  remaining,  obtrudes  itself 
in  the  persons  of  weak  old  women,  and  in  servants  ;  but  the 
whole  is  strangely  mixed,  even  like  the  colors  of  the  times. 

In  the  Rue  de  1’Universite,  the  porter  directs  vast  numbers 
to  that  receiving  room  on  the  first  floor,  of  the  man,  in  this 
time,  most  besought.  Strange  intruders  ! — a  Provincial  pre¬ 
fect  come  to  talk  of  the  bad  tone  in  the  Provinces  ; — a  sub¬ 
official,  to  report  some  new  annoyance  at  the  Bureau ; — a 
young  poet,  with  a  letter,  asking  leave  to  dedicate  to  the 


Salon  and  Salon  People. 


243 


host,  his  hook  ; — a  dashj  woman  come  to  flatter  t.»e  veteran  ; 
— a  toadying  stranger  to  curry  notice,  and  weary  the  chief  of 
the  Executive ;  and  earnest  club-men  willing  to  win  over 
into  healthier  sans-culottism,  the  orator  Lamartine. 

For  fashionable  salon — alas  for  it ! — where  shall  we  look  ? 

All  through  Rue  de  Lille,  and  de  PUniversite,  so  many 
gates  closed !  and  through  the  Rue  de  Bac,  and  Rue  de  Va- 
rennes — as  many. 

Across  the  river,  in  Chausseed’Antin,  in  Rue  St.  George, 
in  Rue  Lavoisier,  and  Lafitte,  so  many  first  floors  to  rent  ! 
So  many  servants  hanging  at  door-ways,  idle  ! — so  few  flowers 
and  garlands  in  flower  merchants  window  ; — so  small  array  of 
pates  at  pastry  cooks ; — so  little  rattling  of  equipages  at 
eleven  and  twelve  at  night,  in  this  dull  Paris  world  ! 

Even  Madam  P - in  her  Entresol,  clinging  still  to  the 

beautiful  city,  can  scarce  stir  up  mirth. 

The  old  gay  comers  enter  with  a  shrug,  and  a — mon  Dieu  ! 
— mon  Dieu.' 

This  sad  business  of  houses  to  let, — this  strange  trade- 
stagnation, — this  talked-of  railway  absorption — this  falling  off 
of  dividends,  has  forbidden  gaiety.  There  is  no  money  to  be 
spared. 

Even  honest,  little,  retired  linen-draper,  has  closed  his 
rooms  on  a  second  floor  of  some  such  street  as  Rue  de  Seine, 
and  is  off  for  a  maisonette  lie  has  in  the  country — perhaps  no 
farther  than  Mont  Rouge — until  this  strange  business  shall 
have  worked  back — no  matter  how — from  mere  bread-scekin^ 

O 

of  workmen,  into  house-getting  of  Bourgeois. 


244 


The  Battle  Summer. 


Blouse  is  indeed  ruling  Bourgeois. 

English  Rue  de  Rivoli  is  full  of  sign-hoards,  in  most 
tempting  English  phrase,  of — ‘rooms  to  rent.’  The  Hotel 
itself — English  Meurice,  has  but  a  beggarly  list  of -names. 
British  Bedford  in  a  retired  quarter,  and  the  Brighton  are  still 
worse  ;  they  are  thinking  of  closing  doors  altogether 

Valets  de  Place  are  most  sadly  at  discount.  They  dodge, 
formidable,  and  dinnerless,  under  all  those  colonnade  arches  of 
Rivoli,  eager  to  catch  sight  of  even  the  most  diminutive  port¬ 
manteau,  or  hat-box  ;  and  pouncing  upon  every  sharp-collared 
adventurer  in  hackney-cab,  with  unrestrained  torrent  of  per¬ 
plexed  Saxon  speech.  Your  coupe  may  drive  to  Neuilly, 
without  meeting  a  single  sister  coupe  ;  and  you  may  venture 
the  tour  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  with  what  company  you 
will, — safe  from  observation. 

Even  the  brilliant  Ranelagh  is  almost  deserted  ground.  No 
angry  disputants  now,  for  the  light  hand  of  any  light-heeled 
Rigolette,  or  Queen  Pomare, — very  glad  all  of  them,  poor 
castaways  !  for  any  hand  that  may  offer.  For  the  best  of 
their  Cavaliers  now,  smack  strongly  of  the  Chaumiere ;  there 
are  damaged  hats  with  brims  rolled  close, — unmistakeable 
medical  tie  of  flashy  cravat,  and  gloves  smelling  strongly  of 
camphene ! 

Frequenters  of  Frascati,  and  the  most  elegant  of  Lorettes, 
are  understood  to  be  winding  their  way  by  diligence,  and 
railroad,  to  Brussels,  and  the  baths  of  Baden  For  them, 
Paris  has  lost  its  charms,  in  losing  its  strangers,  and  it?  cur¬ 
rent  money. 


Theatres. 


245 


They  adore  freedom,  but  not  a  Republic  ! — Athens  in 
deed,  but  no  Sparta  ! — Alcibiades,  but  no  Solon  ! — Angli , 
sed  non  Angeli  ' 


VII. 

Theatres. 

rrVIEATRES,  with  their  wire-wicketed  money  traps? 
J-  make  a  very  safe  guage  of  the  pulse  of  Fashion,  in 
these  days  of  Revolution. 

There  are  very  few  calls  now,  for  Loge  an  'premier ,  or  for  any 
ten-franc  places.  And  if  you  enter  such  theatre  as  that  ‘  of 
the  Republic’ — the  old  Theatre  Fran§ais — what  a  sad,  dreary 
range  of  dress  circle  ! 

- Yonder  perhaps,  some  determined  old  widow  lady 

unable  to  shake  off,  even  in  the  worst  of  times,  her  love  for 
the  charming  spectacle  ;  she  has  dragged  in  with  her,  hy  her 
dreadfully  persuasive  smile,  some  young  under-officer,  who 
stands  meekly  in  abeyance  to  the  wave  of  her  perfumed  fan. 

Opposite,  is  a  stout  Provincial  Representative,  with  his  red 
ribbon  in  his  button-hole,  and  his  thumbs  tucked  complacent¬ 
ly  into  the  armlets  of  his  waist-coat.  He  is  perhaps  a  wine¬ 
maker  at  Macon,  or  Orleans,  with  a  tribe  of  children  ramb¬ 
ling  about  a  mossy,  old  mortar-built  house  :  he  loves  the  Re¬ 
public,  for  the  Republic  has  made  him  a  member ;  he  has 
found  some  agreeable  lady-acquaintance — not  hard  to  be  found 


246 


The  Battle  Summer 


by  Stout,  full-pursed  wine-maker — to  fill  a  corner  of  his  box ; 
and  he  runs  his  eye  fondly  over  the  blouses  of  the  parterre, 
and  piteously  over  the  hungry  critics  of  the  orchestre. — 
What  a  delightful  thing  to  be  Representative  ! 

He  turns  his  lorgnette  admiringly,  yet  half  coyly,  and 
timidly,  to  a  magnificent  lady  of  the  next  box poor  man  ! 
how  little  he  knows,  fresh  from  the  Provinces  as  he  is,  that  he 
is  admiring — to  the  well-bred  smile  of  the  orchestre — some  old 
Aspasia,  with  new  triumph,  in  the  shape  of  a  worsted  Alci- 
biades,  at  her  elbow  ! 

Further  on,  is  a  happy,  rubicund-faccd  old  man,  cleverly 
dressed,  cleverly  disposed,  who  is  there  from  pure  love  of  the 
play, — or  the  actresses — listening,  and  observing  all — taking 
snuff  between  the  scenes,  and  crying — bravo  ! — to  pretty 
Mademoiselle  Judith  ! 

Everybody’s  eyes  are  on  him, — eyes  of  full-pursed  Bour¬ 
geois, — which  seem  to  say  by  their  look, — where  can  his  stock 
be  ?  JIow  comes  it,  that  his  dividends  are  paid  ?  And  they 
turn  away  with  an  expression  that  means — Mon  Diet/,,  quel 
temps  nffreux! 

And  now  higher,  is  a  Bourgeois  trader’s  family ; — Madame, 
— three  chubby  daughters,  and  a  ten-year  old  boy,  who  breaks 
out  into  a  soprano  laugh,  at  the  least  mirth  of  the  comedy  ;  an 
inconsiderable  little  husband,  occupies  a  corner  of  the  box, 
under  favor  of  the  wife,  and  enjoys  much  as  he  can — for  her 
presence — the  rare  luxury  of  a  loge  au  second. 

But  the  actors  are  careless ;  they  know  their  audience ; 
they  can  well  distinguish  those  stupid  listeners,  from  the  old- 


Theatres. 


247 


time  connoisseur.  Even  the  worn-out  women  who  sell  foot¬ 
stools  to  ladies,  blink  the  bargaii  with  an  air  of  derision,  that 
says,  plain  as  words  can  say  it, — we  have  served  your  betters  ! 

Old  Frederick  Lemaitre,  prince  of  mclo-dramatists,  at 
saucy  Porte  St.  Martin — the  very  haunt  of  prince-haters — 
has  vainly  run  over  his  Thirty  Years  of  Actor,  his  Robert 
Macaire,  and  his  intense  sans-cullottism — the  Chiffonnier. 
Vainly  has  the  blue-bloused  old  searcher  of  rags  trimmed  his 
lantern  in  the  garret, — vainly  counterfeited  age  and  hunger, — 
vainly  run  over  in  that  terrible  soliloquy,  the  luxuries,  and 
monopolies  of  the  rich,  and  sufferings  of  the  poor — so  that 
your  eyes  brim  with  the  old  man’s  ;  and  your  neighbor,  stout 
as  he  may  be,  is  busy  with  his  handkerchief ; — vainly,  we  say, 
all  this  !  Not  that  Lemaitre  has  failed,  but  the  strangers  who 
wondered  are  gone,  and  the  Parisians  who  loved,  are  grown 
too  poor. 

Lemaitre  has  gone  to  the  Provinces. 

Bouffe  has  rounded  his  last  plaudits,  over  the  Gamin  de 
Paris ,  and  he,  with  old,  yet  ever  young  Dejazet,  is  wandering 
Southward. 

The  stage  has  grown  weary  of  its  Republic-encomium  task¬ 
work.  The  Marseillaise  has  died  out,  except  here  and  there, 
on  such  lugubrious  boards,  as  Beaumarchais,  and  Luxem¬ 
bourg.  Even  satiric  Vaudevilles,  with  such  titles  as  Republic 
of  Plato,  and  Republic  of  Women,  have  drawn  down  hearty 
vivats.  Poor  Beranger’s  chansons  with  pretty  Demoiselle 
Page  for  interpreter,  have  failed.  Where  has  sentiment 
gone  ? 


248 


Tee  Battle  Summer. 


Ask  the  old  wc  man  at  the  till  of  the  Variefes  ; — Has  tho 
Republic  spoiled  your  earnings  ? 

- Ah,  Mon  Dieu:  elleest  bonne  peutetre — well  enough 

perhaps — mais  voyez  vous,  un  pen  faligante  ! — 'hut  hot 
after  all,  the  thing !  We  humored  the  fancy,  while  it  was 
warm  ;  quelle  foule  ! — what  a  crowd  of  Republicans ! 

- And  what  now  ? 

—  All ,  mon  Dicn  ! - and  the  old  woman  gives  such  a 

shrug  1 


VIII. 


The  Champs  Elysees. 


N  the  Champs  Elysees  too,  we  may  find  symptoms  of 


present  Paris  fever.  Where  indeed  should  we  look 
for  indications  of  popular  feeling — of  Paris  feeling — of  Revo¬ 
lutionary  feeling,  if  not  in  the  street — above  all  such  street  as 
Champs  Elysees  ? 

Who  does  not  know  the  Champs  Elysees  ? — gay,  bright, 
charming,  wooded — with  its  magnificent  Circus,  and  its  Pano¬ 
ramas,  and  its  Cafes,  and  its  troops  of  minstrels,  and  its  little 
goat-drawn  phaetons,  and  its  swings,  and  its  long  asphalte 
walk,  and  its  swarms  of  people,  and  its  pleasant  rendezvous, 
and  its  broad,  firm  avenue  sweeping  away  westward  to  the  Arc 
de  l’Etoile  ? 

Who  has  not  loitered  there  of  a  sunny  afternoon,  watching 


Tiie  Champs  Elysees. 


249 


the  passing  multitudes,  greeting  familiar  faces,  gazing  at  the 
dashing  equipages,  listening  to  pleasant  chanter  or  harpist — 
his  soul  tossed  in  reveries,  and  his  fancy  busy  with  bright 
dreams  ? 

And  who  that  has  thus  idled  in  such  enticing  luxury 
of  scene,  and  sound,  but  longs  for  such  luxurious  idleness 
again  ? 

What  a  quieter  for  disordered  spirits ! — what  a  cure  for 
fainting  courage — that  walk  upon  the  Champs  Elysees  !  If 
sickness  has  pinioned  you  arm  and  foot  in  some  dim  chamber 
of  the  Rue  de  Bac, — tell  your  coachman  to  drive  you  up  the 
sunny  Champs  Elysees,  and  you  are  well  again  !  If  despon¬ 
dency  weighs  you  down,  heavy  and  dank  as  the  air  of  such 
street  as  Rue  de  la  Harpe — stroll  up  the  Champs  Elysees, 
and  its  sights,  and  its  sun,  and  its  trees,  and  its  smiles  will 
make  you  forget  your  sadness !  If  bitter  news  has  come  to 
you,  a  stranger,  in  that  city — where,  of  all  cities,  a  stranger 
is  least  a  stranger— an  hour  upon  that  Champs  Elysees,  will 
drive  the  bitter  memories  away ! 

But  how  is  it  now  in  this  June  of  1S48  ? 

Equipages  are  scattered ; — scarce  noticeable  in  the  crowd 
of  hackney  cabs  ;  and  those  who  rode  before  in  hackney 
cabs,  now  give  a  sixpence  to  the  conductor  of  the  omnibus. 
And  the  omnibuses  are  full ;  economy  has  made  French  ladies 
more  careless  than  ever  of  hard-pushing  elbows. 

Those  prim  English  riders,  upon  well-groomed  English 
cobs,  coming  in  from  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  are  no  where  to 
be  seen. 


250 


The  Battle  Summer. 


The  juggler’s  stands,  in  King-times  scarce  allowed  except  on 
days  of  Fete,  are  distributed  in  every  quarter; — their  stock 
in  trade  is  small ;  they  risk  nothing  by  their  buffoonery  ; 
and  there  are  those  unquiet  spirits  wandering  among  the 
trees,  whom  buffoonery  will  amuse. 

Here,  a  slouch-hatted  card  trickster,  is  crying  at  the  top  of 
his  voice, — holding  up  his  aces  of  diamonds,  and  promising 
safe  fortune-telling, — with  now  and  then  a  slight  sneer  at  £  our 
Republic  at  this  Provincials  grin  ;  and  little  soldiers  grin  ; 
and  poor  men,  who  do  not  pay  the  juggler,  look  sour. 

Farther  on,  enterprising  little  banlieu  boys,  in  jockey 
jackets  are  shooting  at  the  clay  image  of  a  King,  at  a  sous  a 
shot ;  and  if  they  strike  him  in  the  eye  they  can  claim  one  of 
the  dwarf  statues  of  liberty,  which  arc  ranged  above  the  clay 
king. 

Punch  is  be-thwacking  Judy,  just  as  under  the  old  system, 
except  that  Judy  is  now  coiffed  with  Phrygian  cap,  and 
Egalite  is  printed  on  Punch’s  stand. 

A  huge  caldron  is  heating  in  a  retired  quarter,  under  the 
trees,  and  in  it  are  floating  all  manner  of  stray  and  juicy  edibles, 
which  by  and  by,  after  the  chief  cook  in  turban,  and  with 
short  pipe  in  his  mouth,  shall  have  stirred  thoroughly  with  his 
long  pole,  will  be  on  sale,  at  two  sous  the  ladle-full,  and  an 
earthen  bowl  to  eat  from.  The  caldron  is  labelled  Fraternite: 
— cats  and  hares  are  fraternizing  inside,  and  warming  !  Beg¬ 
gars,  who  have  earned  a  sous  or  two,  after  six  hours  of  plaintive 
entreaty,  crowd  up  to  the  caldron  for  their  only  meal  of  the 
day.  And  workmen  too  proud  to  buy  such  stingy  dinner, 


The  Champs  E  l  y  s  fc  e  s  . 


251 


snuff  the  fumes  wishfully,  and  utter  a  disdainful  sigh  at  1  the 
times.’ 

Tableaux  vivants  are  announced  here  and  there  upon  the 
curtain  of  great  tents ;  sacred  pictures  are  profaned.  The 
Virgin  and  Christ — we  blush  to  record  it — are  represented 
and  at  a  stroke  of  the  fiddle,  they  dance,  and  chant  the  Car¬ 
magnole  !  Then  the  Virgin  leaps  into  the  crowd,  pulls  off 
her  tiara,  which  proves  a  convenient  money-box,  and  solicits 
offerings  from  stranger  Magi ! 

The  new  Garde  Mobile  shuffle  about  here  and  there  in 
their  white  gaiters,  and  green  epaulettes,  and  are  at  onoe  the 
envy  and  the  curse  of  sour-looking,  unfed  blouses, 

The  old  lady  who  guards  the  crimson  chair  in  the  scales, 
finds  few  to  weigh: — from  time  to  time  a  fat  old  matron  of  the 
suburbs,  will  crush  herself  between  the  elbows,  or  a  new  Re¬ 
publican  Guard  will  venture  a  sous,  curious  to  see  how  mueh 
he  has  gained  by  his  worsted  epaulettes,  and  his  cartouche 
box,  and  his  red-breasted  coat. 

The  long  range  of  cafe  chairs  are  empty,  and  the  idle 
gargons  lean  upon  the  marble-topped  tables,  with  their  nap¬ 
kins  over  their  arms,  looking  longfully  at  the  passers  by.  The 
circus  gate  is  closed,  and  the  stone  basin  of  the  Round  Point 
fountain  is  nearly  dry. 

- Such  are  th)  Elysian  Fields  of  this  Paris  June  ! 


252 


The  Battle  Summer 


IX. 

Socialism  and  Socialists. 

WHAT  a  curse  is  this  Socialism! — says  the  Debats 
newspaper,  and  all  the  Debats  readers  ; — and — wliat 
an  awful  thing  is  Socialism  ! — says  the  London  Standard  ; — • 
it  is  Socialism  that  is  destroying  the  Republic — says  the  Sun  : 
Socialism  alone  can  save  us, — says  Pierre  Leroux  ; — if  La¬ 
martine  were  only  a  Socialist ! — say  Socialist  ladies  : — and — 
if  we  could  only  get  rid  of  the  Socialists  ! — say  Bourgeois 
wives  ! 

And  now  wbat  is  this  bugbear  Socialism  ?  Is  there  any 
getting  at  it  ?  Is  there  any  saying  wbat  it  is,  or  wbat  it  is  not  ? 
Is  there  any  possibility  of  painting  this  great  type  of  French 
craziness,  so  that  Western  curious-ones  may  recognise  the 
features,  and  say — lo,  the  monster  ! 

Is  it  a  new  Christianity, — or  a  new  Philosophy  ,^-or  a  new 
Science, — or  anew  Humbug? 

It  is  neither.  It  is  not  a  new  Christianity,  for  the  few  old 
Christians,  who  are  of  the  faith,  give  it  all  the  Christianity  it 
possesses  ;  and  the  mass  of  its  teachers  care  as  little  for  Chris¬ 
tianity,  as  they  care  for  antiquity.  It  is  not  a  new  Philosophy, 
since  all  the  Philosophy  there  is  in  it,  is  as  old  as  nature  ;  and 
all  that  there  is  new,  is  most  unphilosophical.  It  is  not  a  new 
Science,  because  it  is  no  Science  at  all,  being  a  heterogeneous 


Socialism  and  Socialists.  253 

mass  of  opinions,  without  classification,  order,  or  method  ; 
because  its  experiments  have  failed,  and  because  such  truths 
as  belong  to  it,  are  rather  intuitive  than  demonstrative.  Nor 
is  it  wholly  a  humbug,  because  much  reality  is  at  the  bottom 
of  it, — real  sympathy  with  suffering, — real  hatred  of  oppres¬ 
sion, — real  earnestness  of  endeavor,  and  real  love  of  hu¬ 
manity  ! 

Whatever  it  may  he,  it  is  made  up  of  strange  and  incon¬ 
gruous  ideas,  and  by  a  mass  of  strange  and  incongruous  men  ; 
— as  different  one  from  the  other,  as  Enfantin  from  Fourier, 
or  St.  Simon  from  Prudhon. 

Let  us  then,  as  with  the  Bourgeois,  look  at  types  : 

- You  see  that  old  man  yonder,  at  the  corner  table,  in 

a  second-rate  Restaurant  beyond  the  Seine, — who  has  ordered 
stale  bread, — who  drinks  a  very  little  poor  wine, — who  has 
before  him  a  fricandeau  of  veal,  garnished  with  spinage, — who 
scarce  lifts  his  eyes  from  the  table, — who  eats,  as  if  eating 
were  a  necessary,  but  unfortunate  duty,  soon  to  be  got  over — 
whose  coat  is  very  rusty,  and  whose  hat — not  taken  off — is 
rustier  still  ; — who  talks  in  monosyllables  to  the  gargon,  an  1 
who  reads  the  Democratic  Pacifique  with  vehemence ; — who 
searches  a  long  while  in  his  pocket  for  the  franc  and  a  half 
that  pay  for  his  dinner  ; — who  gets  out  awkwardly  from  be¬ 
hind  his  table,  and  who  passes  the  grisette  at  the  counter, 
without  touching  his  hat ;  and  who  does  not  even  say — • 
thankee,  to  the  gargon  who  opens  the  door  for  him  : — very 
well,  he  is  an  arrant  Socialist ! 

He  knows  little  <rf  world-life,  except  what  meets  him  in  the 


254 


The  Battle  Summer. 


streets  in  the  shape  of  equipages,  and  in  the  shape  of  beg¬ 
gars  — he  pities  the  last, — he  scqrns  the  first ;  and  between 
the  pity  and  the  scorn,  there  has  grown  up  in  him  a  hanker¬ 
ing  after  an  equalization,  which  equalization  he  has  thought 
of — dreamed  of — wrote  of — and  calls  it— Socialism  ! 

If  a  man  be  rich,  it  is  in  his  eye  condemnation ;  if  a  man 
be  poor,  it  is  in  his  eye,  a  glory.  He  has  felt  his  way  through 
life,  struggling  with  hardships,  knowing  nothing  of  pleasure 
— dreaming  always.  There  is  a  vague  light  floating  over  his 
dreams, — a  faint  rainbow  topping  his  thoughts,  which  promise 
joy  yet  to  come.  That  joy,  he  looks  for  in  the  establishment 
of  the  scheme,  at  which  he  labors  : — that  joy  and  that  hope 
sustain  him. 

Poor,  kind  man  !  he  will  go  to  his  grave  with  his  joy  a 
rainbow, — and  his  Socialism  a  dream  ! 

- Now  look  at  that  red-haired,  dirty-fingered  young 

man  of  five  and  twenty,  with  head  uncombed,  with  wildness 
in  his  eye,  and  a  little  of  the  sensualist  upon  his  lip, — who 
has  been  fighting  circumstance  all  his  life  ; — he  is  a  Socialist. 
Yet  lie  regards  the  last  as  a  weak,  old-woman  dreamer.  His 

creed  is - 1  am  as  good  as  any,  therefore  I  have  a  right  to 

all! 

He  does  not  look  down  ;  he  does  not  order  stale  bread  ;  he 
does  not  speak  in  monosyllables.  Far  from  it !  His  quick 
eye  is  glancing  from  side  to  ride  ;  he  watches  that  man  yon¬ 
der  who  has  just  ordered  Bordeaux  wine,  as  if  it  were  a  pun¬ 
ishable  offence— an  insult  to  himself,  for  any  one  to  order 
Bordeaux 


Socialism  and  Socialists. 


255 


Yet  he  drinks  his  own  weak  wine  with  gusto  :  he  goes  to 
the  lower  half  of  the  bottle  ;  he  holds  it  up  to  the  light  to  see 
that  he  gets  his  full  quota.  He  pockets  the  half  roll  that  is 
left  of  his  bread  ;  he  begrudges  the  gar^on  the  copper  that  is 
his  due. 

He  scowls  at  a  man  who  is  chatting  with  the  grisettc  ;  he 
talks  loud  and  angrily  to  the  servants  : — he  is  a  purely  selfish, 
vulgar  man — dissatisfied  with  world-order,  because  his  stomach 
is  not  filled,  and  his  self-love  is  not  flattered.  He  advocates 
Reform, — not  to  help  others,  but  to  help  himself. 

He  wishes  only,  to  see  no  one  drinking  better  wine  than  he, 
or  wearing  better  coat  than  himself : — or  riding  in  other  car- 
riage  than  such  as  he  rides  in, — or  talking  louder  than  he 
talks, — or  enjoying  life  more  than  he.  He  vainly  thinks  that 
Socialism  will  bring  this  to  pass.  Poor  shell  of  a  soul ! — it 
was  not  made  half-full,  and  it  will  perish  empty  ! 

Let  us  step  now  into  the  garden  of  the  Palais  Royal : — you 
see  at  that  little  round  table,  before  the  Cafe  of  the  Rotonde, 
a  middle-aged  man,  with  the  ribbon  of  honor  in  his  button¬ 
hole  ;  he  is  chatting  with  a  companion,  and  occasionally  sip¬ 
ping  at  a  demi-tasse  of  coffee.  There  is  a  lurking  look  of 
dissatisfaction  in  his  eye  ;  and  yet  a  gleam  of  earnestness 
that  speaks  of  something  better. 

He  is  perhaps  a  peer  of  France  ;  he  has  lived  a  long  youth 
of  dissipation ;  gifted  with  fine  'eclings,  he  has  abused  them 
by  a  thousand  intrigues  ;  he  has  exhausted  the  pleasures  of  a 
gay  life,  and  the  strength,  of  a  vigorous  constitution.  Still, 
his  sensibilities  are  quick  and  keen  ;  and  enough  of  soul  is 


2  56  The  Battle  Summer. 

left,  to  mourn  over  the  heartlessness  of  society,  and  the  vani¬ 
ties  of  the  world. 

His  enthusiasm  takes  fire  at  the  thought  of  a  new  society, 
which  shall  have  the  freshness  and  the  earnestness  of  nature 
for  basis.  He  longs,  with  such  vigor  as  is  left  in  him,  to  pull 
down  the  Old,  by  which  he  has  become  corrupt,  and  to  build 
up  the  New,  in  which  he  dreams  of  a  brighter  and  better  life. 
His  fervor  amounts  to  madness  ;  and  he  joins  eagerly  with 
gray-beards  and  bandits,  to  mature  those  vast  social  projects, 
whose  outlines  lie  before  him  like  a  holy  vision. 

He  is  a  crazy  Socialist :  his  enthusiam  may  betray  him  to  a 
dungeon  ;  and  he  will  find  too  late,  that  his  own  extrava¬ 
gances,  and  world-follies  have  made  him  the  puppet  of  his 
sensibilities. 

- Another,  whom  we  shall  find,  not  at  Cafe  table,  but 

in  dim  chamber — in  old,  shabby,  broidered,  dressing  gown, 
over  a  table  piled  thick  with  books  and  manuscripts,  is  of  a 
different  cast.  With  him  Socialism  is  not  of  the  heart,  but  of 
the  head. 

His  face  is  thin  and  long ;  his  hand  withered  and  bony ;  his 
eye  twinkling,  and  moving  restlessly  from  paper  to  paper  : 
now  he  rises,  and  moves  swiftly  across  the  chamber,  and  now 
he  sits  again,  and  leans  thoughtfully  with  his  sinewy  fore-fin¬ 
ger  to  his  temple. 

He  has  lived  a  long  life  :  he  has  been  prisoned  in  libraries : 
he  had  read  Rosseau  and  Voltaire,  at  an  age  when  most  are 
busy  with  Buffon  or  Gil  Bias.  He  has  been  priest,  professor, 
anchorite,  conspirator,  author,  saint,  and  devil. 


Socialism  and  Social  is  ts. 


257 


Ho  lias  made  the  Kingly  state  sacred  by  union  with  the 
Church  ;  he  has  made  the  Church  a  despot,  by  setting  it 
above  the  State  ;  again,  he  has  made  the  State  a  holy  unity  by 
burning  into  it  the  heat  and  vigor  of  high  Christian  purpose  ; 
and  yet  again  he  has  dashed  State  and  Church  to  the  ground, 
and  has  built  a  new  society,  by  fusing  the  fragments  of  the 
wreck,  with  a  hot  spirit  of  democracy,  and  a  wild,  heathen 
license  ! 

- All  this  in  his  dreams  : — but  his  dreams  have  come  to 

naught ! 

With  him  Socialism  is  not  a  matter  to  bring  bread  to 
hungry  mouths,  or  to  heal  a  diseased  vanity,  or  to  quiet  a 
longing  heart, — but  a  subtle  philosophy  to  propound — a  de¬ 
lightful  theory  to  eulogize  !  With  this  man,  Socialism  is  the 
turbid  residue  of  a  life  of  great  mental  activity  and  unceasing 
change. 

- It  is  the  Abbe  Lamennais  ;  and  he  will  go  to  his  tomb 

before  long — for  he  is  very  old,  and  very  feeble — with  no  bet¬ 
ter  epitaph  than  this  : — Here  lies  a  great  man,'  who  did  very 
little  ! 

- Yet  another,  and  differing  from  all  these,  we  shall 

find  upon  the  benches  of  the  Schools.  He  is  young  ;  he  is 
earnest ;  he  is  humane  ;  and  he  thinks  he  is  honest.  His  life 
has  been  comparatively  even  ;  he  has  had  no  more  to  strug¬ 
gle  with  than  ten  thousand  other  youths  of  Paris  ;  and  yet 
his  struggle,  small  as  it  has  been,  has  taught  him — what  it 
has  not  taught  the  ten  thousand  others — that  this  is  a  world 


25S  Tiie  Battle  Summer. 

of  struggles.  And  -with  bis  humanity,  and  his  youth  stirring 
him,  he  has  asked  himself — why  a  world  of  struggles  ? 

Is  there  not  a  holy  God’s  order  somewhere,  in  store  for  the 
world,  which  philosophy,  or  thought,  or  endeavor,  by  digging 
and  diving  may  arrive  at  ?  And  is  it  not  a  duty  we  owe  to 
this  mind  that  is  in  us,  and  to  the  humanity  about  us,  and  to 
God  above  us,  to  go  on  digging  and  diving,  until  these  strug¬ 
gles  shall  cease,  and  that  order  shall  be  attained  ? 

His  Socialism  is  not  defined  by  names  or  creeds  ;  he  may 
sneer  at  Enfautin  ;  or  he  may  doubt  Fourier  :  he  may  scorn 
St.  Simon,  and  despise  Prudhon,  yet  after  all  is  he  Socialist : — 
Socialist  because  he  is  working  to  do  away  the  present  social 
life,  and  to  create  a  new  social  life. 

Liberty  and  Feudality  are  the  foci  of  his  political  philoso¬ 
phy.  Where  one  gains,  the  other  loses  ;  where  one  loses,  the 
other  gains.  With  Feudality  he  associates  all  present  privi¬ 
lege  ;  and  with  Liberty  all  possible  content. 

He  does  not  hate  wealth,  because  envious,  but  because  it  is 
a  type  of  the  old  Feudality ;  ho  does  not  smite  at  kings,  be¬ 
cause  they  wear  royal  robes,  but  because  those  robes  cover 
Liberty.  In  his  enthusiasm, — he  would  crush  property, — he 
■would  ruin  States, — he  would  destroy  family, — he  would  cripple 
the  Church,  if  by  so  doing  he  could  arrive  a  step  nearer  to 
that  order,  to  which  he  believes  the  world  predestined. 

He  is  not  selfish,  but  he  is  dangerous.  He  will  live  a  trou¬ 
bled  life,  and  end  it  perhaps  on  the  guillotine  ;  and  yet  all 
the  while,  honestly  thinlc ,  that  he  is  doing  God  service  ! 

Such  are  Paris  Socialists,  and  such  is  Socialism  ! 


Last  Look  at  Lamartine. 


259 


X. 

Last  Look  at  Lamartine. 

SOME  fifty  odd  years  ago,  and  in  an  old,  slovenly-looking 
country  house,  near  the  wine-making  town  of  Macon, — 
in  a  large  rambling  chamber,  with  oak  floor,  and  most  homely 
furniture,  sat  a  pretty  boy  (he  himself  has  told  prettily  the 
story,)  listening  to  his  mother,  as  she  read  such  books  as  those 
of  Ossian  and  Tasso. 

The  mother  was  a  good  mother  ;  and  the  boy,  as  times  went, 
a  good  boy.  He  was  not  a  boy  to  go  birds-egging,  or  to  rob 
vineyards. 

Yet  notwithstanding,  we  find  him  not  many  years  after,  dis¬ 
sipating  in  the  capital, — almost  breaking  his  mother’s  heart 
with  his  spendthrift  fooleries, — dipping  into  intrigues,  so  shame¬ 
ful  that  he  blushes  to  name  them — living,  in  short,  as  young 
men  of  Paris  are  apt  to  live,  and  against  which  manner  of  liv¬ 
ing  Ossian ’s  and  Petrarch’s  poetry  are  very  weak  defenders  ! 

By  and  by  in  Italy,  where  he  has  wandered — his  mother’s 
jewels  being  pawned  to  keep  him  alive — he  idles  for  months 
together  beside  the  beautiful  shores  of  that  most  beautiful  bay 
of  Naples  ; — living  in  a  fisherman’s  family — fishing  with  the 
fisherman’s  sons, — reading  poetry  to  the  fisherman’s  daughter, 
and  in  the  end  giving  us  a  scene  of  half-boyish,  half  rustic 


260 


The  Battle  Summer. 


half  honest,  half  heartless  love — at  once  £  grotesque,  natural, 
and  Greek  ’ 

Again  in  the  whirl  of  Paris,  where  tears,  and  love-locks  of 
a  dead  one  follow  him,  wo  find  him  making  love  to  the  young 
wife  of  Lacenede. 

This  was  poetic  ;  it  was  natural,  doubtless ;  perhaps  honest  , 
it  was  certainly  French  ! 

But  all  this  passes — the  love,  the  annoyances,  the  heart, 
rendings, — the  bright  lake  of  Savoy — the  sickness,  the  letters, 
the  death — as  a  pleasant,  pardonable  vagary  of  youth  : — a 
mountain  wild  flower,  that  the  boy  cherishes,  and  the  man 
treads  down ! 

He  has  gained  the  name  of  a  Poet,  and  is  one  day  again  in 
Italy,  no  longer  a  dreaming  boy,  but  a  tall,  graceful  gentle¬ 
man  of  Paris.. — He  overhears  by  accident  a  female  voice  re¬ 
citing  one  of  his  best  loved  poems  ;  he  discovers  the  voice  to 
be  that  of  a  young  English  lady  ;  the  Paris  heart,  or  the  Paris 
vanity,  is  not  yet  proof  against  youth  and  admiration, — and 
he  marries  her. 

Some  years  after,  with  wealth  at  his  command,  he  freights 
a  vessel  for  the  East.  He  sails  up  the  Mediterranean  with 
his  wife  and  child.  He  wanders  dreamily,  with  a  little  of  the 
old  Ossian  spirit  in  him,  over  Syria  and  Palestine,  and  comes 
back  with  his  wife — saddened.  The  child  that  had  gone  with 
him,  comes  back  too,  a  corpse  ! 

He  writes  a  rich  story  of  his  voyage,  and  more  poems. 

And  finally,  his  ambition,  or  his  humanity  leading  him,  he 
slips  into  the  great  whirl  of  political  life.  He  has  no  party, 


Last  look  at  Lamartine. 


261 


but  he  makes  eloquent  speeches.  He  does  not  talk  of  finance 
and  civil  polity,  so  much  as  of  right,  and  of  principle. 

He  has  formed  vague,  yet  warmly-cherished  notions  of 
something  better  in  Government,  than  mere  King-craft ;  he 
believes  in  something  better  than  the  old  rule  of  expedients. 
With  a  naturally  religious  mind,  he  has  blended  his  religion 
— more  poetically  than  wisely — with  his  political  faith,  and 
dreams  of  Christianizing  Government — of  bringing  down  that 
old,  simple  philosophy  of  the  Jordan — do  good  to  others — to 
State  practice. 

His  heart  naturally  warm — perhaps  too  warm — abets  him 
in  his  hopes,  and  in  his  schemes.  He  believes  that  man  will 
be  better  acted  on  by  love  than  by  fear.  He  is  no  political 
Calvinist. 

He  writes  a  picture-history  of  the  old  Revolution.  It 
spreads,  like  a  wind,  in  France.  It  is  read,  and  quoted,  and 
translated  ;  and  from  loving  the  book,  French  people  come  to 
love  its  author.  A  humanity,  a  liberality,  and  a  charity  per¬ 
vade  it,  that  commend  him  to  all  who  are  struggling,  and  to 
all  who  are  in  fear. 

Then  comes  the  new  Revolution,  sweeping  Paris  strangely, 
and  suddenly — like  a  flood  by  night ! 

He  floats  ufon  it  to  the  top.  We  have  seen  him  there, 
and  how  he  kept  his  place,  by  his  fervor,  by  his  eloquence,  and 
by  his  name.  It  was  a  time  of  enthusiasm  ;  and  there  was 
needed  an  enthusiast  for  orator  ;  it  was  a  time  of  wild  poetic 
frenzy,  and  it  needed  a  poet  for  interpreter.  We  have  seen 


262  The  Battle  Summer. 

him  entrancing  thousands  hy  the  spell  of  his  voice  ; — saving 
the  city  from  desolation,  and  the  world  from  horror  ! 

Thanks  for  this,  to  the  soul,  and  the  voice  of  Lamartine  ! 

But  where  does  he  stand  now,  this  middle  of  June  ? 

The  street-world  is  no  longer  lit  up  with  poetic  frenzy, 
hut  is  dogged,  and  matter-of-fact.  The  blouse  no  longer 
swings  his  red  cap  to  chant  of  Carmagnole,  but  comes  with 
musket,  or  pick-axe,  and  wants  bread.  Government  is  no 
longer  matter  of  enthusiastic  proclamation,  and  eloquent 
manifesto,  but  of  practical,  dull  detail. 

To  this  he  is  not  used,  nor  does  he  love  it.  Indeed,  to  the 
Republic  of  his  imagination,  such  detail  would  be  almost  su¬ 
perfluous.  With  perfect  liberty  guaranteed,  and  perfect  good¬ 
will  secured,  regulations  of  State  would  be  reduced  to  mere 
issue  of  manifestos.  But  that  magnificent  scheme  of  a  Chris¬ 
tianized  Government,  finds  lacking  in  Paris  people,  the  first 
clement  of  success — Christianity  ! 

Already,  Lamartine  is  disabused  of  his  too  fond  belief ; — ■ 
the  people,  after  all,  of  these  crowded  faubourgs,  are  not  one 
half  so  good,  so  temperate,  so  reasonable,  so  self-denying,  as 
he  had  hoped  them.  Already,  he  has  sought  to  warp  his  pure, 
governmental  philosophy,  into  a  philosophy  of  expedients. 

He  has  lost  a  great  deal  of  that  first,  enthusiastic  sympathy 
for  Blouse  ;  and  he  has  won  over  little  sympathy  of  Bourgeois. 
Still  he  bears  up  bravely*— his  heart  leaning  to  those  suffering 
faubourgs,  and  his  discernment  teaching  him,  that  their  head¬ 
strong  endeavor,  if  unchecked,  will  prostrate  all. 

With  voice  still  eloquent,  though  half-stifled  by  grief,  and 


Glance  at  the  Assembly. 


263 


vexation,  he  pleads  first  with  one,  and  then  with  the  other : 
— a  hard  see-saw  work,  and  he  can  scarce  keep  his  own 
equilibrium,  while  he  stands  thex-e  in  the  middle  of  the  sway¬ 
ing  plank,  seeking  still  to  preserve  the  due  balance  between 
Blouse  at  the  one  end,  and  Bourgeois  at  the  other.  The 
Blouse,  distrustful,  rail  at  him ;  and  the  Bourgeois  chuckle, 
and  say — he  must  fall ! 

And  so  perhaps  he  may ;  but  lie  will  carry  with  him  a  good 
heart,  and  good  intentions,  and  the  name  of  having  done  a 
good,  honest  man’s  work ! 

His  views  of  humanity,  are  too  poetic  for  a  Statesman ; 
they  are  not  morbid,  but  glowing  with  his  own  generous  in¬ 
tent.  He  counts  mankind — and  French-kind  specially — 
better  than  it  is.  He  sees  no  need  of  cautions,  since  he  ig¬ 
nores  the  evils  which  those  cautions  are  to  prevent.  His 
kindness  is  his  weakness  ;  and  his  humanity  betrays  his  judg¬ 
ment. 

Such  man,  in  our  day,  should  not  be  without  honor,  even 
when  fallen  ! 


XI. 


Glance  at  the  \s  s  e  m  b  l  y . 


DAY  after  day,  the  nine-hundred  Constitution-makers 
are  talking  angrily  in  their  palace  chamber ;  day  after 
day,  the  nine  hundred  hammers  are  clattering  on  the  anvil, 


264  The  Battle  Summer. 

•whereat  is  being  forged  the  new  Code  for  thirty  millions  of 
Frenchmen. 

Our  history  will  not  foe  complete,  unless  we  give  a  glimpse 
of  this  great  smithy  with  the  laborers  at  their  work.  It  is 
hut  little  satisfaction  to  a  curious  man — far  away — to  know 
that  they  have  arranged  such  and  such  preambles, — that  they 
made  such  and  such  speeches, — that  they  have  sat  for  so 
many  hours,  or  days  ; — he  wishes  to  know  too,  if  a  spark  of 
imagination  ever  kindles  his  eye,  or  brain, — how  they  have 
been  doing  this,  and  the  other.  Even  the  most  unimagina¬ 
tive,  when  they  meet  with  that  word — National  Assembly — 
conjure  up  some  image  of  aldermanic  sitting,  or  American 
Congress,  or  Religious  vestry,  or  Park  gathering :  but  the 
images  are  crude,  and  deceptive.  French  Assembly  is 
not  made  up  of  big-bellied  Aldermen,  nor  tobacco-chewing 
Congress-men,  nor  sleek  clergymen,  nor  long-haired  Bowery 
orators. 

Let  us  see  then  what  it  really  is ;  let  us  come  near  enough 
to  read  faces,  with  our  opera  glass  ; — let  us  lay  our  finger  on 
the  pulse  of  this  great  heart  of  France,  which  is  beating,  and 
throbbing  day  after  day, — in  sun  and  shade,  in  storm  and  calm 
— within  its  sentinelled  gates,  upon  the  banks  of  the  Seine  ! 

- There  are  lobbies — crowded  lobbies — green-carpeted 

lobbies,  where  an  earnest  friend  of  a  member,  has  him  by  the 
button-hole,  talking  sharp  and  earnestly.  He  is  not  an  office- 
seeker,  as  you  would  naturally  presume  such  man  to  be  in  a 
Washington  lobby,  but  he  is  interested  in  some  great  measure 


Glance  at  the  Assembly. 


265 


of  finance,  which  is  under  discussion,  and  he  is  cramming  his 
friend  for  a  speech. 

Another  pair  is  made  up  of  two  opposing  politicians,  who 
have  stolen  out  to  discuss  the  question  at  issue  between  them¬ 
selves  :  and  who  talk  as  earnestly,  and  vehemently,  as  if  the 
decision  rested  on  their  private  pleading. 

There  are  other  lobbies  where  strangers  are  crowding  up, 
with  their  tickets,  eager  to  secure  their  places  in  the  gallery 
tribunes  ; — wives  of  members,  and  provincial  cousins,  and 
Stultz-coated  Englishmen,  and  scholars  of  St.  Cyr,  and 
Blouses.  Gay-tempered  talk  flies  from  one  to  the  other-, 
as  they  stand  waiting,  with  good-humored  patience,  for  the 
doors  to  open.  The  Englishman  holds  himself  stiff  and 
erect,  studying  the  chamber  chart,  not  deigning  to  ask  a 
question,  and  wondering  at  the  careless  abandon  of  that  Paris 
speech. 

—  Very  unlike  the  way  we  do  things  in  London! — muses 
he.  Very  unlike  to  be  sure  !  In  the  corridor  leading  to  the 
House  of  Commons,  such  company  would  be  silent  and  mo¬ 
rose,  and  the  touch  of  a  neighbor’s  elbow  might  possibly  be 
deemed  an  insult. 

But  now  we  are  fairly  within ;  the  ladies  occupy  the  first 
range  of  scats,  and  we  are  looking  over  their  daintily  trimmed 
hats — nay,  between  their  hats  and  over  their  shoulders,  if 
needs  be,  without  fear  of  giving  offence; — we  are  looking 
down  upon  a  long  hall,  carpeted  with  green,  and  long  ranges 
of  green  seats  rising  tier  above  tier. 

-  It  is  eleven  o’clock  :  in  an  hour  the  President  is  to 

12 


266 


The  Battle  Summer. 


take  his  place  under  yonder  painted  canvas  canopy.  The 
Tribune  in  front  of  tbe  President’s  gilded  chair,  with  its 
flattering  dates  of  February  in  fresco,  is  silent.  A  kuissier  or 
two  with  long,  slim  swords  are  gliding  up  and  down  the  middle 
avenue,  sometimes  re-arranging  the  scattered  papers  upon  the 
desks  of  the  members  ;  and  sometimes  looking  up  at  the  gal¬ 
leries,  which  are  even  thus  early,  filling  with  ladies,  and  uni¬ 
forms,  and  a  sprinkling  of  blouses.  These  galleries,  narrow, 
and  divided  by  compartments,  stretch  along  on  either  side  of 
the  house ;  and  at  the  foot  of  the  Hall,  are  two  tiers  of  tri¬ 
bunes,  cut  like  stage-boxes,  into  the  wall. 

They  are  now  all  full,  and  charts  are  out,  and  tongues  are 
busy,  talking  of  what  is  to  come,  and  on  what  benches  are  to 
be  seen  the  great  men  of  the  Assembly. 

By  twelve,  a  few  members  have  sauntered  in  : — perhaps 
among  them,  a  stout,  well-featured,  rosy-cheeked  man,  with 
head  half-bald,  easy,  rolling  walk,  and  eye  sparkling  with  ex¬ 
pectation — whom,  if  his  portraits  have  not  already  told  you 
— your  neighbor  will  have  pointed  out  to  you  as  the  hero  of 
the  bugbear  Legitimacy — M.  de  la  Rochejacquelin. 

Y ou  will  look  at  him  with  interest,  with  your  Republican 
eyes,  as  a  relic  of  the  old  regime  ;  and  wonder  that  he  bears 
himself  so  stoutly,  and  graciously,  amid  the  terrors  of  the 
Revolutionary  times. 

The  members  thicken,  as  the  hour  advances. - There  is 

Napoleon  Bonaparte,  sitting  half  way  up  upon  the  benches 
of  the  Right — with  face  so  like  the  pictures  of  his  uncle ; 
and  there,  again,  marching  up  the  front,  with  heavy,  careless 


Glance  at  the  Assembly. 


267 


step,  and  honest,  ruddy,  strongly-marked  face,  is  the  lazy 
Mirabeau  of  the  time,  M.  Berryer. 

A  mild-looking,  primly-dressed,  lawyer-like  man  has  now 
taken  his  seat  under  the  canopy,  and  rung  his  bell.  He  talks 
quietly  with  one  or  two  about  him,  and  drops  an  occasional 
whisper  to  the  huissiers  below.  Jt  is  M.  Senard,  the  advo¬ 
cate  of  Rouen,  and  President  of  the  Chamber. 

At  the  end  of  a  seat  near  by,  upon  the  Left,  a  military¬ 
looking  man,  in  blue  frock-coat,  and  with  heavy,  colossal  fore¬ 
head,  has  just  taken  a  modest  place-  His  manner  has  been 
so  quiet  you  would  not  have  observed  him,  except  for  the 
whisperings  of  those  about  you,  and  for  the  half  dozen  who 
are  now  grouping  around  him.  You  can  see  the  heavy  head 
of  Rochejacquelin  in  the  company ;  and  can  see,  by  the 
movement  of  his  lips,  that  he  is  addressing  the  new  comer 
The  replies  seem  to  be  earnest,  though  quiet ;  and  you  catch 
glimpses  of  an  occasional  gesture  of  the  hand,  which  is  more 
like  a  sober  English  gesture  than  a  lively  French  one. 

You  wonder  who  it  can  be,  who  seems  so  young — scarce 
five  and  forty — and  yet  so  important ;  and  if  you  ask  your 
neighbor,  he  will  tell  you,  with  a  glance  of  pride,  that  it  is 
the  soldier  who  has  fought  so  bravely  in  Algeria — the  Minis¬ 
ter  of  -War — the  General  Cavaignac. 

A  snug,  thickly-set  man,  with  round  shoulders,  short  neck, 
black  moustache,  and  gray,  bushy  hair,  chats  from  time  to 
time  gaily  with  the  General,  and  those  who  are  grouped  about 
him — and  now  is  running  his  eye  with  the  glance  of  a  connois¬ 
seur  over  the  front  range  of  ladies  : — this  is  the  aspiring  chief 


268 


The  Battle  Summer. 


of  the  National,  the  adviser  of  the  Ministry,  the  Mayor  of 
Paris, — the  voluptuous  Marrast ! 

A  little  way  behind  them,  you  catch  sight  of  a  dark,  Indian 
face,  with  long  hair  shading  it,  and  lighted  hy  a  pair  of  pierc¬ 
ing  blood-shot  eyes, — and  those,  in  their  turn,  lit  up  with  a 
strange  smile — the  smile  of  Indian  warrior,  as  he  snuffs  the 
battle  !  It  is  Lagrange,  the  conspirator  of  Lyons  : — the  fear¬ 
less,  earnest,  mad  Reformer  ; — his  mind  is  brimming  with  fan¬ 
cies — fancies  humane,  fancies  rich-colored,  fancies  devilish  ! 
He  has  come  there,  he  feels  it,  with  the  strength  of  some 
forty  thousand  Lyonnaise  souls,  all  crowded  into  his  own ; 
and  he  will  speak  for  them — perhaps  without  hindrance — cer¬ 
tainly  without  fear  ! 

Your  eye  now  falls  upon  a  tall  man,  with  silver,  gray  hair, 
in  closely-buttoned,  black,  frock-coat,  and  with  dignified  car¬ 
riage,  who  walks  up  the  hall,  and  places  himself  quietly 
upon  a  low  seat  to  the  Left : — immediately  the  whisper  circu¬ 
lates  in  the  gallery — voile),  Lamartine  !  And  a  score  of  opera 
glasses  are  turned  upon  him. 

While  they  are  watching,  he  leans  over  to  have  a  word  with 
his  neighbor.  The  neighbor  is  stout,  tall,  broad-shouldered, 
has  gray  hair,  and  a  firm,  honest,  countryman’s  look.  And 
who  is  it,  you  ask,  that  greets  Lamartine  so  cordially,  and 
wears  (from  the  gallery)  such  look  of  an  honest  countryman  ? 
The  lady  before  you  turns,  wondering  who  can  be  so  ignorant : 
—  Cest  Arago — she  says, — Arago  the  philosopher  ! 

The  house  is  now  nearly  full  Berryer  is  taking  snuff. 


/ 


Glance  at  the  Assembly.  269 

Montalcmbert  is  writing.  Ledru  Rollin  is  speaking  earnestly 
with  M.  Pages. 

Twice  the  President  has  rung  his  bell,  and  twice  the  huis- 
siers  have  ordered  the  loitering  representatives  to  their  places. 
The  report  of  yesterday’s  session  is  adopted,  but  in  such  noise 
of  conversation  and  laughter,  that  you  can  hear  no  word  of 
the  proceedings. 

— Thiers  !  Thiers  ! — runs  round  the  galleries ;  and  eye¬ 
glasses  are  levelled  at  that  little,  sleek,  gray-headed  man,  in 
spectacles,  whom  we  have  seen  before,  and  who  now  comes 
waddling  up  the  hall,  nodding  to  this  one,  and  shaking  hands 
with  that  one, — till  at  length  he  is  in  his  place,  his  head  lean¬ 
ing  on  his  hand,  and  the  debate  is  about  to  commence. 

Two  or  three  are  in  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  tribune,  and 
look  appealingly  for  their  turn,  toward  the  President,  At 
length  one  mounts,  and  leaning  over  the  desk,  attempts  to 
make  his  voice  heard,  above  the  whispers  and  chattings,  and 
movements  in  the  hall.  * 

But  if  he  is  a  dull  speaker,  or  an  unknown  speaker,  or  an 
unpopular  speaker,  or  his  topic  be  unimportant,  the  attempt 
will  be  utterly  vain.  In  vain  the  scowling  Senard  will  pi*  on 
his  look  of  authority ;  in  vain  the  huissiers  will  rap  upon  the 
railing  ;  in  vain  the  orator’s  friends  will  cry  out  for  order. 
His  words  come  to  the  distant  quarters  of  the  hall  only  in  fee¬ 
ble  gusts  of  sound  ;  and  the  murmur  of  the  talk  below,  and 
the  earnest,  eager  voices  above,  drown  it  altogether. 

Sometimes  a  sentiment  is  caught  up  by  some  disputatious 
listener  in  the  galleries,  and  rebutted, — and  another  comes  to 


270  The  Battle  Summer. 

the  rescue,  and  you  are  relieved  by  a  lively  little  debate  at 
your  elbow.  The  poor  orator  labors  on,  unconscious  of  the 
pleasant  side-play,  and  the  President  relieves  his  conscience 
by  an  occasional  tug  at  the  bell. 

Presently,  some  person  makes  his  appearance  at  the  foot  of 
the  tribune,  more  welcome  than  the  rest.  The  whisper  circu¬ 
lates  in  the  gallery — it  is  Barrot !  or — it  is  Rollin  !  A  little 
silence  gains  place  ;  the  attendant  places  on  the  desk  a  fresh 
glass  of  water  ;  the  representatives,  who  have  been  ceaselessly 
chatting,  put  on  air  of  attention.  The  President  rings  his 
bell  with  more  confidence,  and  the  orator  will  begin  with  quiet 
listeners.  For  a  time  every  word  will  reach  you.  But  quiet 
is  not  the  habit  of  the  French.  A  word,  a  thought,  a  slip  of 
the  tongue,  a  sneer,  is  seized  upon  to  relieve  the  irksomeness 
of  continued  listening,  and  the  Assembly  unburthens  itself  by 
a  noisy  adhesion,  or  a  noisy  ‘  hilarity.’ 

Again  the  tinkling  of  the  bell, — again  the  thundering  voices 
of  the  huissiers,  and  a  temporary  silence  gives  new  force  to 
the  speaker,  and  new  unrest  to  the  Assembly. 

If  the  speaker  be  very  earnest,  or  violent,  a  lapse  of  quiet 
will  be  followed  by  a  storm  of  sensation — which  means  an  in¬ 
describable  uproar  of  voices,  that  yields  only  to  the  exhausted 
lungs  of  the  audience.  Towards  the  close  of  the  sensation, 
you  will  hear  the  dinging  of  the  President’s  bell,  and  the  out¬ 
cry  of  the  attendants,  and  presently  again,  the  violent  intona¬ 
tions  of  the  speaker. 

So  the  Assembly  rocks  on,  hour  after  hour,  from  quiet  to 
clamor,  and  from  clamor  back  to  quiet ! 


Glance  at  the  Assembly. 


271 


If  a  speaker  really  enchain  the  Assembly,  as  Thiers,  and 
Lamartine,  and  Ilollin,  and  Berryer,  will  sometimes  do, — then 
follows  invariably  a  little  recess,  to  work  off  the  uneasy  feel¬ 
ing  of  quietude,  and  to  put  on  again  the  old  habit  of  chat,  and 
clamor. 

The  declaration  of  a  vote  too,  involves  an  immense  amount 
of  forbearance  ;  it  is  a  matter  which  unfortunately  every  one 
desires  to  hear  ;  and  the  silence  which  precedes  the  announce¬ 
ment,  is  for  a  French  Assembly,  absolutely  oppressive. 

As  the  painted  urns  make  their  appearance  over  the  edge  of 
the  tribune,  the  talk  is  general.  The  absent  members  throng 
in  at  the  door.  The  tickets  click  within  the  urns.  The 
liuissiers  glide  around  stcalthfully  as  cats.  Members  cross, 
and  re-cross,  and  anticipate,  and  grow  nervous ;  and  the 
galleries  make  bets,  and  dispute  threateningly. 

At  length,  the  votes  are  all  in.  The  committees  who  count, 
are  at  their  work.  Talk  grows  noisier,  and  noisier.  In  the 
midst,  sounds  the  President’s  bell.  The  order  goes  forth — to 
your  places ! 

The  President  rings  again,  and  grows  impatient,  and  shrugs 
his  shoulders.  The  huissiers  shout — silence.' — as  if  their  lungs 
were  brazen.  The  cry  is  repeated  at  the  foot  of  the  tribune, 
and  at  the  foot  of  the  hall,  and  in  the  galleries  above.  News¬ 
paper  reporters  bend  an  ear  over  the  edge  of  their  balcon,  that 
nothing  may  escape. 

Finally,  the  uproar  subsides  into  noisy  bilk  ;  the  noisy  talk 
sinks  into  occasional  >.kat ;  chat  dies  into  murmured  whispers  ; 
the  whispers  grow  less  and  less  frequent.  The  President 


272 


The  Battle  Summer. 


makes  a  final  demand  for  silence — taps  his  bell — lifts  his 
paper — looks  around — raises  bis  eyebrows — shrugs  his  shoul¬ 
ders — taps  his  bell  again — and  declares  the  vote  ! 

A  moment  after,  and  the  Assembly  is  itself  again,— the 
same  noisy,  stirring,  restless,  ever-beating  heart  of  France  ! 

Thus,  day  after  day,  in  these  warm  days  of  June,  it  goes 
on,  throbbing,  and — throbbing  still,  within  its  stone  walls,  and 
its  sentinelled  gates  upon  the  Banks  of  the  Seine  1 


XII. 


Black  Clouds  Gathering. 

N  the  Rue  St.  Antoine,  early  on  a  bright  summer  morn- 


Ja_  ing,  a  company  of  men  and  women — dirty-looking  men 
and  women  of  St.  Antoine-; — is  gathered  under  a  tall  house, 
and  all  eyes  are  directed  to  a  little-  casement  of  the  fourth 
story.  The  casement  is  sadly  shattered  ;  they  say  it  was  dona 
that  morning. 

-  And  who  has  done  it  ? — you  ask. 

- Lui  meme — the  poor  fellow  who  lived  up  there  ;  he  has 

shot  himself !  And  there  is  the  wife,  with  her  child,  in  the 
door  way,  telling  the  story  !  He  was  a  workman, — a  wheel¬ 
wright  ;  he  had  fought  well  in  F ebruary  ;  he  was  half  glad  to 
stack  the  omnibuses  in  the  barricades,  for  he  thought  more 
would  be  built.  But  he  could  find  no  work.  He  went  once 
to  the  Public  Shops,  but  there  were  no  carriages  to  make  ; — 


Black  Clouds  Gathering. 


273 


he  could  not  do  other  work  ;  he  was  ashamed  to  be  paid  for 
doing  nothing.  He  went  back  to  his  quarters  ;  he  hoped 
work  would  come  again  ;  he  grew  sick  with  short  food  ;  and 
this  morning  he  cured  himself  with  his  luusket ! 

—  It  is  terrible  ! — say  the  crowd,  and  they  look  one  another 
in  the  face — faces  lean  with  hunger — and  thiuk  bitter  thoughts. 
If  they  had  only  the  ten  millions  that  Barbes  would  have  given 
them  ! — but  Barbes  is  in  prison. 

- Go  now  to  the  Morgue ;  there  are  twelve  brass- 

covered,  slanting  marble  tables,  each  with  a  dead  body  upon 
it.  Some  have  been  many  days  in  the  water ;  some  have  been 
fished  out  of  the  Seine  that  very  morning ;  and  one  shattered 
wreck  of  a  man  has  been  picked  up  under  the  column  of  the 
Place  Vendome. - Workmen,  out  of  work  ! 

A  crowd  is  at  the  grating  looking  in,  scanning  carefully 
those  blouses,  and  drenched  caps,  which  hang  over  each,  to 
see  if  they  can  detect  the  apparel  of  a  friend  ; — God  only 
knows  if  it  may  not  be  a  brother  ! 

A  female  figure  is  there,  which  has  been  newly  taken  from  the 
water.  The  dress  is  better  than  that  belonging;  to  most. 
None  seem  to  recognize  it.  Presently  an  eager  man  in 
blouse  comes  in,  and  runs  his  eye  over  the  dead  tables, 
until  it  rests  on  that  figure — on  that  dress, — and  he  staggers 
against  the  wall. 

They  make  room  for  him  ;  they  give  him  a  glass  of  water. 
He  is  better  now.  He  knows  her ! — he  does  not  say  how 
related,  but  it  is  plain,  that  it  was  some  heart  relation. 

—  She  worked  at  embroidery, — he  says  ; — but  there  was 

12* 


274  The  Battle  Summer. 

little  to  be  done,  and  her  Bourgeois  shopman  reduced  her 
pay;  finally  he  could  give  her  no  work.  She  had  at  best  a  mis¬ 
erable  chamber,  but  she  could  not  pay  the  rent ;  her  Bourgeois 
land-lady  said  she  must  go. — And  she  is  gone  ! — said  the  man 
griping  at  the  bars,  as  if  they  had  been  musket  barrel — la 
voila  ! 

He  sheds  no  tears,  but  he  pulls  off  his  cap,  and  runs  his 
gaunt  hand  through  his  matted  hair, — and  clenches  it, — and 
scowls, — and  passes  out.  Bourgeois,  beware  ! 

- Passing  over  the  bridge  of  the  Institute,  not  long  after, 

you  see  a  sack  floating  in  the  river ;  it  is  a  queer,  strangely 
shaped  sack,  as  if  a  human  body  might  be  in  it.  The  eyes  of 
the  police,  and  of  the  boatmen  are  on  it  too,  and  it  is  pre¬ 
sently  brought  to  land. 

They  find  iu  it  the  body  of  a  woman  who  has  been  foully 
murdered ;  she  has  not  been  robbed,  for  a  ring  is  on  her 
finger.  They  carry  the  body  to  the  Morgue,  and  for  three 
days  it  lies  upon  the  table  without  a, claimant,  or  a  friend  to 
recognize  it. 

Five  days  after,  and  the  mistress  of  a  dingy  house,  in  one 
of  those  narrow  streets  which  open  on  the  Place  de  Pantheon, 
reports  that  a  young  woman  has  been  missing  a  week  from  her 
chamber.  The  police  visit  the  apartment,  and  find  hidden 
in  the  ashes  upon  the  hearth,  a  bloody  hatchet.  The  mis¬ 
tress  knows  nothing  of  the  young  woman ;  she  does  not  even 
recognize  the  clothes  that  are  shown  to  her ;  the  body  is  too 
sadly  mutilated  for  her  to  identify. 

The  lodger  had  come  to  Paris,  apparently  from  the  coun- 


Black  Clouds  Gathering. 


275 


try,  a  short  time  before  the  Revolution.  She  had  rarely  seen 
her  : — one  visitor  she  remembers,  a  man  in  blouse,  who  fre¬ 
quently  brought  bread,  or  fruit  to  the  lodger.  He  was  a  stout 
man  of  five  feet  in  height,  with  bushy  beard,  and  very  dark 
eyes.  She  has  not  seen  him  since  the  disappearance  of  the 
young  woman. 

On  the  very  day  of  this  communication,  the  Prefect  receives 
a  telegraphic  message  from  a  distant  provincial  town,  of  the 
arrest  of  a  suspected  criminal.  He  was  dressed  in  blouse, — had 
with  him  a  small  bundle  of  clothes,  and  was  without  passport. 
As  he  was  being  conducted  to  the  Mairie,  he  attempted  to 
make  his  escape.  This  excited  suspicion,  and  he  was  exam¬ 
ined  ;  his  answers  were  so  unsatisfactory  that  he  has  been 
committed  to  prison,  waiting  orders  from  Paris.  He  is  five 
feet  in  height,  has  regular  features,  bushy  beard,  and  black 
eyes. 

He  is  ordered  to  Paris,  and  is  confronted  with  the  land¬ 
lady  ; — and  is  recognized  as  the  visitor.  Thus  far  there  is  no 
further  proof  of  his  guilt :  he  is  brought  in  a  few  days  before 
the  tribunal  of  police.  The  clothes  found  upon  the  body  are 
lying  upon  the  table,  by  the  bar. 

The  officer  asks  if  he  knows  these  garments  ?  The  man’s 
voice  falters  as  he  says, — No  ! 

—  And  this  ring  ? — says  the  officer,  showing  the  one  found 
upon  the  body. 

The  man  passes  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  as  if  he  would 
shut  it  from  his  sight. 

The  officer  repeats  the  question. 


276 


The  Battle  Summer. 


—  Mon  Dicu  ! — says  the  man — si  je  la  connais  ! — it  was 
our  marriage  ring  ! — And  he  leans  against  the  rail,  with  no 
strength  in  him  now  for  further  questioning. 

But  presently  he  recovers  ; — does  he  know  how  she  came 
to  her  death  ? 

—  Yes  ! — and  the  fire  lights  his  dark  eye  again, — 1  killed 
her  ; — we  were  starving  ! 

—  And  yet — says  the  officer,  with  the  coolest  French  irony, 
— you  were  journeying  sinoe, — un  voyage  d'agrement,  sans 
doute — perhaps  for  pastime  ! 

The  man  clenches  his  fist  in  his  agony  ;  hut  that  passes  ; — 
only  journeying  to  hid  my  poor  mother  adieu  ! — then  I  would 
have  returned  to  throw  myself  beside  her  in  the  Seine  ! — and 
the  man  points  bitterly  at  the  soiled  bit  of  muslin  before  him, 
and  clasps  his  hands  upon  his  forehead  ! 

He  is  condemned  to  the  guillotine. 

The  story  spreads,  and  with  sad  faubourg  oomments  : — con¬ 
demned — -.-they  say — for  his  poverty  :  while  the  rich  are  riot¬ 
ing  in  their  luxury  ! 

Yes  !  it  will  need  all  Lamartine’s  eloquence,  and  all  Pages’ 
banking  sagacity  to  quiet  the  feeling  that  is  growing  ! 


The  Streets  Again. 


277 


XIII. 


The  Streets  Again. 


f  HE  stranger  coming  to  Paris  in  that  month  of  June, 


JL  would  have  looked  curiously  along  the  streets — particu¬ 
larly  if  he  had  known  Paris  in  its  old  dress — to  see  what 
changes  this  Revolution,  and  this  Republic  had  wrought. 

At  first  he  would  be  disappointed. — Why  this  is  old  Paris 
— he  would  say — here  are  the  old  hackney  cabs — the  old 
sticklers  for  a  long  fare  ;  the  lamps  blaze  along  the  Boulevard, 
as  of  old  ;  and  the  old  valet-de-Place  with  his  crude  English, 
is  ready  at  the  Hotel  Mirabeau,  to  receive  you ! 

But  he  will  be  shown  such  chamber,  as  the  strolling  bache¬ 
lor,  under  the  old  regime,  would  have  despaired  of ;  and  ten 
servants  will  come  to  his  call,  where  two  years  before,  there 
was  but  one. 

And  when  he  strolls  out  of  a  morning,  to  enliven  his  eye, 
and  his  memory,  along  that  glittering  line  of  street,  which  they 
call  the  Boulevard,  he  will  sec  further  change. 

- No  fear  now  of  jostling  old  dowager  ladies,  or  tread¬ 
ing  on  the  toes  of  little  satin -culotled  boys !  He  will  not  see 
tall  English  women  sweeping  their  flounces  through  the  shop- 
doors  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix, — nor  Germans  smoking  on  the 
balcony  of  the  Hotel  du  Rhin.  Even  his  old  friends,  the 
prim  Sergents  de  Ville,  with  their  light,  trim  swords  have 


27S  The  Battle  Summer 

vanished,  and  m  their  place  go  slouching  couples  of  dirty- 
handed  men,  in  tall-crowned  hats,  and  with  short,  black -han¬ 
dled  dirk- swords. 

Those  little  grisettes  who  tripped  along,  lithe-limbed  and 
gay — looking  into  tbe  shop  windows, — glancing  at  him — 
glancing  at  everybody — showing  a  neatly  chausssed  foot,  where 
the  gutter  comes  down  from  the  hotel — tripping  over  the 
crossings  without  a  stain  above  the  sole, — winding — glancing 
— fading — like  bits  of  sunlight  on  waving  grain — are  more 
rarely  to  be  seen  than  before. 

A  queer,  uncouth,  green-epauletted,  boy  corps  of  soldiery, 
will  here  and  there  meet  his  eye, — on  whom  the  shopkeepers 
look  suspiciously — half  dreading  that  this  Garde  Mobile  may 
rule  them  forever. 

Blouses  and  workmen  throng  carelessly  along  the  broad 
asphalte  walks,  looking  hungry  and  sourly,  and  with  the  eye 
of  masters. 

The  old,  prim  man  yonder,  with  gold-headed  cane,  keeps 
his  cane-head  covered,  and  hugs  closely  to  shop  windows,  that 
he  may  escape  observation. 

The  Bourgeois  women  thread  their  way  timidly  through  the 
threatening-looking  passers,  and  enter  their  hotel  doors  with 
a  sigh.  And  the  priests  budge,  three  together,  from  mass, — 
so  close  that  their  broad  hats  touch  ;  and  they  sometimes  kin¬ 
dle  their  sacerdotal  spirit  into  a  gesture  and  half  angry  tone, 
or  get  into  perspiration  with  sheer  violence  of  talk,  and  take 
off  their  broad-brimmed  hats,  ff  wipe  the  beads  from  their 
foreheads.  Small  proprietaire 5  wear  pinched-up  faces,  and 


The  Streets  Again. 


279 


look  awry,  and  carry  tlieir  hands  deep  in  their  trowsers  pock¬ 
ets,  and  glance  suspiciously  at  everybody. 

The  old  crowded  shops  he  will  find  empty ;  the  blue-dress¬ 
ed  grisette,  once  so  constant  at  the  counter  of  the  Bains  Chi- 
nois,  he  will  see  sitting  with  her  knitting  at  the  gate  ;  And  the 
tailor  next  door,  is  idling  among  his  broidered  dressing- 
gowns. 

The  pretty  milliner  girl  has  redressed  her  ribbons,  for  the 
fortieth  time,  with  a  flirt  of  her  dainty  fingers, — in  vain  ;  in  vain 
she  has  re-arranged  her  hats  and  laces,  and  held  that  prettiest 
of  the  coquettish  caps  at  arms  length  for  the  hundreth  time,  in 
intense  admiration  of  its  charms  !  She  has  not  even  so  much 
as  a  Sterne-like  lover,  to  enter  her  shop,  or  to  feel  her  pulse  ! 

Drearily,  the  stranger  passes  on,  jostled  by  swift-moving, 
bad-dressed  persons — all  full  of  the  spirit  and  the  canker  of 
-  the  change. 

The  Bourgeois  in  his  shop  uoor,  with  his  goods  unbought, 
says — we  have  done  too  much  ! 

The  Blouse,  dinnerless  and  mad,  says,  by  his  step  and  ac¬ 
tion, — we  have  not  dons  enough  ! 

If  the  stranger  wander  to  Portes  St.  Denis  and  St.  Martin, 
he  will  find  a  whirl  of  men  eddying  about  those  gray  stone 
monuments,  talking  fast  and  angrily.  If  he  pushes  into  the 
throng,  he  will  be  stunned  with  a  hundred  loud-uttered  ques¬ 
tionings  ; — can  the  Republic  stand  ? — must  there  be  a  Presi¬ 
dent  ? — shall  we  not  have  our  old  Committee  of  Safety  ? — and 
loudest  among  them  all — where  shall  we  find  bread  and  work  ? 

Such  questions,  our  street  people  of  June  do  not  leave  to 


280 


The  'Battle  Summer. 


Assembly,  and  Constitution-makers,  but  are  earnestly  busy 
with  themselves. 

Garde  Mobile,  and  police  men,  and  soldiers,  are  drawn  into 
the  vortex  ;  and  all,  together,  are  noisy  with — what  shall  be 
done  ? 

In  side  street,  the  stranger  will  meet  here  and  there,  a 
company  of  Blouses,  with  muskets  on  their  shoulders,  and  a 
target  borne  by  the  foremost,  riddled  with  balls.  They  have 
been  practising  at  barricade  work, — if  by  chance  there  should 
be  any  further  need  !  The  outermost  ones  will  glance  at  the 
passing  Bourgeois,  with  a  threatening  look,  and  grip  harder 
their  muskets,  and  throw  an  eye  of  triumph  upon  that  riddled 
target,  which  means — Bourgeois  beware  ! 

And  if  the  stranger  should  wander  into  such  quarter  as  that 
of  St.  Marceau,  with  its  damp,  dark  streets,  and  its  houses 
old  and  tottering,  he  will  see  groups  of  women  and  children, 
with  tin  buckets  and  earthen  dishes,  gathering  about  the  doors 
of  the  soldiers’  barracks,  to  beg  a  portion  of  the  soldiers’  pit¬ 
tance. 

They  range  themselves  in  line,  and  wait  patiently  their 
turn  : — first,  an  old  woman  of  sixty,  shrivelled,  dark-faced, 
stooping,  hideous  !  Next  is  a  bright-eyed  little  girl  of  ten, 
with  cavernous  face,  blanched  by  the  damp  and  darkness  of 
her  home.  There  is  no  gaiety  in  her  look ;  the  children  of 
St.  Marceau  are  without  it.  Next  the  girl  is  a  crippled 
man,  with  difficulty  keeping  his  place  on  his  patched-up  leg, 
and  holding  fast  by  his  little  earthen  cruchc.  Then  comes  a 
mother  of  twenty-five,  with  a  sickly-Iooking  babe  in  her  arms, 


Tiie  Streets  Again. 


281 


and  she  only  smiles  when  her  eye  meets  the  babe’s  eye ! — 
a  wretched  desert  of  life  before  her,  and  around  her,  with  no 
oasis,  and  no  cheer,  but  the  eye  of  her  pining  child  ! 

But  these  are  not  the  worst ;  these  may  suffer,  and  linger, 
and  die,  between  hospitals,  and  public  charities,  and  surgeons, 
and  make  no  noise  ! 

But  how  is  it  with  the  hordes  of  unfed  workmen  ?  How, 
with  the  stout-armed  fathers  of  suffering  families  ?  How  is  it 
with  those  tramping  target-shooters  ?  How  is  it  with  those 
who  fought  joyfully  in  February,  and  who  now  find  their 
hopes,  a  wreck  ?  Will  these  make  no  noise  ? 

- You  can  find  an  answer  in  the  air  of  yonder  Blouse  who 

marches  along  the  walk,  with  musket  in  his  hand ;  his  cap  is 
thrown  back  ;  hs  eye  is  wiild ;  his  cheek  is  haggard  ;  he  looks 
proudly  out  on  Paris  streets — not  fearing  even  to  pace  thus 

the  princely  Boulevard - Is  not  this  our  Revolution — says 

he — and  shall  we  not  have  our  spoils  ?  Have  we  not  torn 
down  the  Bourgeois  monarch,  and  can  we  not  tear  down  the 
monarchy  of  Bourgeois  ?  And  ho  clicks  the  lock  of  his 
musket,  muttering  with  a  bitter  smile — voyons  ! — royons  ! 
done  ! 

Which  shall  win  the  day — blouse  of  workman,  or  black- 
trader’s  coat  ? 


2S2 


The  Battle  Summer. 


XIY. 


The  Bourgeois  Tremble 

HOW  is  it  now  ?  Who  has  gained  this  Revolution — or 
is  nothing  gained  ?  We  have  had  rejoicing,  and  fetes, 
song-singing,  and  liberty-trees — whose  are  they  all  ?  Do  they 
belong  to  Bourgeois,  or  to  Blouse  ? 

But  you  will  say,  Humanity  has  gained — in  casting  off  a 
King-yoke, — in  making  itself  free, — in  setting  principle  in 
place  of  corruption. 

Very  rhetorical  all  this  ; — very  true,  as  we  count  truthful¬ 
ness  in  books,  and  orations.  But  after  all,  humanity  is  a 
wide  term  ; — let  us  narrow  it  down  to  French  Humanity — to 
those  human  hearts  and  souls,  and  impulses  which  live,  and  act 
under  cover  of  workingman’s  blouse, 'and  black  trader’s-coat. 

Where  lies  the  question  of  gain,  with  this  French  Hu¬ 
manity  ? 

With  Bourgeois,  the  ultimatum  of  gain  is  to  live  easily, 
happily,  joyfully ;  with  Blouse  the  ultimatum  thus  far,  has 
been  only  to  secure  easy  bread-getting. 

Sadly  disappointed  both  of  them  !  And  strange  to  say, 
the  Bourgeois  are  uneasy,  because  the  Blouse  are  making  such 
sturdy  efforts  to  furnish  themselVes  with  bread,  and — (for  they 
think  they  can  do  if  at  the  same  blow) — a  little  Bourgeois 
luxury. 


» 


The  Bourgeois  Tremble.  2S3 

JUas,  for  the  happy  equalization  which  our  Republic  was  to 
effect !  It  has  equalized  indeed  power  ;  hut  it  has  rendered 
feeling  most  unequal ! — It  has  put  bayonets,  and  strong  words 
in  the  hands  of  those  who  before  had  neither  ;  but  it  has  not 
wrought  any  sort  of  Christian,  or  healthful  equalization.  All 
that  may  come,  but  it  has  not  come  yet.  So  far  from  it, 
— that  great  tribe  of  Paris  men,  who  wear  black  coats,  and 
that  other  tribe  who  wear  blue  blouses,  were  never  more  fair¬ 
ly  divided, — never  more  seriously  set  at  variance. 

It  has  been  drawing  to  this,  from  the  days  of  February,  to 
the  middle  of  June  ;  the  clamorous  gatherings  about  the  Hotel 
de  Ville,  in  the  time  of  the  Provisional  Power, — the  array  of 
National  Guard  in  April, — the  sittings  of  the  Commission  of 
Labor, — the  outbreak  of  May,  and  the  Public  Workshops, 
have  all  widened  the  severance. 

Blouse  is  fierce  yonder,  in  the  street,  and  proud  and  ready 
for  blood,  if  blood  is  wanting — and  Bourgeois  is  trembling 
behind  his  counter. 

The  great,  frowning  cloud  of  Publie  Workshop,  is  growing 
blacker  and  blacker,  and  is  streaked  with  jagged  lightning.  No 
Lamartine  paratonnerre  can  draw  off  all  its  fire.  Its  compa¬ 
nies,  and  brigades,  are  laughing  and  lazing  at  their  work,  and 
promenading  streets  by  torchlight,  in  bands  of  fifty,  and  a  hun¬ 
dred.  They  scowl  on  Bourgeois,  and  they  shake  hands  invit¬ 
ingly  with  half-fed  workmen. 

But  these  shops,  dark-looking,  and  threatening,  and  strong 
as  they  arc,  the  Government  has  decided  to  abolish  ;  and  the 
Government  has  a  majority  in  that  Chamber  of  Representa- 


2S4 


Tiie  Battle  Summer. 


tives^  and  it  has  the  National  Guard,  and  it  has  the  army,  and 
the  purse  on  its  side.  But  still  the  brigaded  workmen,  per¬ 
sist  in  saying  they  will  not  be  disbanded  ;  and  they  have  with 
them,  a  strong  and  resolute  faction  of  the  Chamber, — a  score 
of  noisy  clubs,  the  foul,  and  howling  Faubourgs, — the  hollow 
voices  of  the  imprisoned  Barbes  and  Blanqui,  and  perhaps 
too — no  one  knows  as  yet — those  pert  twenty  thousand  Garde 
Mobile  ! 

They  will  not  even  go — these  men  of  the  shops — to  make 
Provincial  railways  ;  they  love  Paris  better  ;  they  hold  their 
pick-axes  in  defiance,  over  the  heads  of  the  Chamber.  Poor 
Trelat,  and  his  police  force,  can  do  nothing  with  them  ! 

Lamartine  with  the  perspiration  in  beads  on  his  forehead, 
and  Arago  in  his  loose,  black,  long  coat  sit  over  the  counsel 
board,  worrying  their  brains  with  this  sad  matter  of  Executive 
Government. 

No  wonder  that  Bourgeois  tremble  ! — The  white-cravatted 
Rothschild  trembles  for  his  coffers,  and  wears  thoughtful  air  at 
such  rare  soirees  as  he  frequents  ;  his  chat  now  is  all  earnest 
talk.  The  gossiping  lodging-house  matron,  who  goes  to  mass 
with  her  spaniel,  trembles  in  her  striped  silk — for  herself,  and 
her  shabby  furniture,  and  her  lap  dog  ! 

Tire  stout  shopman  of  the  Rue  St.  Denis  is  in  a  fluster  of 
apprehension ;  and  the  Bourgeois  priest  looks  unquiet,  and 
talks  nervously,  and  long,  with  the  patron  of  his  cafe. 

The  study  even  of  the  Constitution-makers,  and  the  Con¬ 
stitution  committee,  has  swayed  off  from  preambles,  and 


The  Bourgeois  Tremble.  285 

articles,  and  is  turning  on  that  great  pivot  of  public  thought 
— the  National  work-shops. 

—  They  must  come  down — say  the  Government,  with 
their  sentries  at  the  door. 

—  Pull  them  down  if  you  dare  ! — says  Blouse,  clicking  his 
musket,  and  brandishing  his  pike. 

Poor  Lamartine  in  distress  goes  from  General  to  General, 
asking  advices  ;  he  draws  street  plans  of  defence;  and  Arago 
lays  the  measure  of  his  great  mind  to  palace  angles,  and  range 
of  batteries.  A  long-headed  officer  who  has  seen  service  in 
Algeria,  is  of  the  conclave  ;  he  smiles  at  the  fervor  of  Lamar¬ 
tine,  and  the  mathematical  arrangements  of  the  Astronomer  ; 
he  says  very  little,  hut  he  thinks  a  great  deal  ; — he  is  just  the 
man  to  bring  this  brewing  storm  to  quick,  and  fearful  issue  ! 
It  is  Cavaignac,  the  Minister  of  War. 

But  the  Blouse  too  is  awake  ;  and  his  line  of  battle  is  drawn  ; 
his  muskets  arc  distributed ;  and  he  does  not  flinch  at  the 
awkward  march  of  the  Garde  Mobile,  or  at  sight  of  the  prim 
step  of  the  little  crimson-legged  soldiery.  The  whole  tribe  of 
Blouse  is  astir,  in  dirty  quarter  of  St.  Marceau,  away  by  the 
barrier  dc  Trone,  and  all  through  the  Faubourg  St.  Denis. 
They  are  fierce  and  hot,  and  angered  with  hunger  and  thirst. 

No  wonder  that  Bourgeois  tremble  ! 


286 


The  Battle  Summer. 


XV. 


Blouse  Reigns. 


T  is  the  twenty-first  day  of  June ;  the  air  is  balmy  and 


JL  mild.  Looking  off  from  the  terrace  of  St.  Cloud  upon 
Paris,  and  its  fair,  level  plain — checked  with  vineyards, — em¬ 
bossed  with  fortresses, — dotted  with  country  houses,  and 
streaked  with  the  glittering  Seine,  you  would  never  imagine 
that  a  whirlwind  was  gathering  in  the  bosom  of  it  all !  A 
light-blue  haze  is  hanging  over  the  scene  ; — there  is  no  cloud  ; 
— there  is  no  thunder  ; — there  is  no  sound  but  the  paddling  of 
the  little  Seine  boat  below,  or  the  dash  of  the  gushing  water 
in  the  palace  fountains. 

Now  draw  nearer  ;  the  air  is  sultrier  as  you  cross  the  plain, 
as  you  tramp  on  the  low-lying  wood  of  Boulogne,  as  you  near 
the  city  gates  You  observe  even  at  the  barrier  great  com¬ 
panies  of  men,  talking  loud,  and  angrily — not  talking  of  the 
crops,  of  the  markets,  or  of  the  day,  but  of  the  army — of  the 
workmen,  of  a  new  Government,  and  of  street  slaughter. 
The  police  man  slinks  around  them,  powerless. 

There  are  few  cabs  whirling  this  day  out  to  Bois  de  Bou¬ 
logne  ;  Bourgeois  are  all  at  home  ;  Blouses  are  all  in  the 
street. 

Little  bodies  of  troops  are  moving  here  and  there  quietly, 
but  they  do  not  at  all  interrupt  the  talk  of  Blouse.  The 


Blouse  Reigns. 


287 


fountains  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  are  flinging  up  into  the 
soft,  June  air  their  glittering  jets  of  spray  ;  but  the  hum  of 
the  murmuring  voices  upon  the  Square,  is  louder  than  the 
gush  of  the  fountains.  Thick  and  heavy  masses  of  troop  are 
gathered  like  a  close-growing  wood  around  the  Palace  of  the 
Representatives ; — a  triple  armor  to  defend  the  heart  of 
France  from  the  arm,  and  bludgeon  of  the  Blouse  ! 

The  garden  of  the  Tuilleries  is  prettily  carpeted  with  the 
dancing  shadows  of  its  waving  tree-tops  ;  the  lindens,  and 
the  water,  and  the  sun,  and  the  air  are  summer-like,  but  the 
sentries  at  the  gates  are  wintry  !  They  step  quick  and  sharp, 
as  if  they  scented  a  battle.  Throngs  of  Blouses  choke  up  the 
gateway.  Under  the  Rivoli  Colonnade,  the  Bourgeois  are  in 
pairs,  talking  dismally  ; — Alas — they  say — these  terrible 
Canaille,  where  will  they  lead  us  ? 

And  the  Blouse  yonder,  from  his  crowd,  says — these  beasts 
of  Bourgeois  !  where  will  they  drive  us  ? 

And  "has  it  all  come  to  this — from  20th  of  February,  to 
20th  of  June,  four  long  months  of  good  King- killing  battle, 
— of  capital  club  philosophy, — of  most  eloquent  manifestos, — ■ 
of  magnificent  labor-organizations, — of  grand,  joy-uttering 
display, — of  thrifty  growing  poplars, — of  ‘  admirable  good 
sense,’ — and  now  no  tangible  result,  except  a  schedule  of  un¬ 
finished  articles,  which  they  call  the  Constitution  ? — and  the 
two  halves  of  this  Paris  world,  eying  each  other  across  it,  for 
a  new  battle ! 

A  Republic  is  an  excellent  good  thing  to  be  sure  ;  but  it  will 
not  in  four  months’  time  fill  hungry  men’s  stomachs,  nor  bring 


2S8 


The  Battle  Summer. 


money  into  Bourgeois  coffers.  On  the  contrary,  Bourgeois 
money  has  been  oozing  out  frightfully  fast,  and  as  for  Blouse, 
who  by  hard  work,  was  sure  of  a  scant  pittance  under  the  old 
order,  he  is  now  dodging  hungry  about  Restaurateurs’  shops 
— finding  bread  with  difficulty,  and  not  certain  of  finding  it 
at  all ; — a  very  picture  for  the  philosophic  soliloquy  of  supper- 
loving  Ergasilus  in  the  play  : — 


Miser  homo  est,  qui  ipse  sibi,  quod  edit,  qumrit,  et  id  cegre  invenit : 

Sed  ille  est  miserior,  qui  et  cegre  quaerit,  et  nihil  invenit ; 

Tile  miserrumu  ’st,  qui,  quom  esse  cupit,  quod  edit,  non  habet  ! 

Miserable  indeed! — but  still,  he  is  stanch,  quick,  and 
brave.  He  is  making  his  processions  file  off  to  a  loud  Mar¬ 
seillaise,  in  the  dirty  Rue  St.  Jacques  ;  he  has  gathered  great 
groups  about  him  at  the  Porte  St.  Denis  ;  he  has  quit  his 
work  at  the  Public  Shop  ;  he  is  running  balls  in  his  garret ; 
he  is  occupying  the  whole  trottoir  of  the  Boulevard ;  he  is 
frightening  timid  mothers  ;  he  is  making  all  Paris  tremble,  as 
if  a  June  earthquake  were  shaking  the  city  ! 

- Up  to  late  night,  he  gathers  strength  ;  he  marshals 

his  scattered  forces ;  he  collects  his  hungry  cohorts  under  the 
dark  shadows  of  the  Pantheon ;  he  passes  fearlessly  by  the 
bivouac  fires  of  out  lying  sentries  ;  his  hoarse  Carmagnole,  or 
strong-shouted — Right  to  Labor  ! — disturbs  the  soft  night  air, 
'and  passes  like  an  ominous  owl-hoot  under  the  tall  houses  of 
the  Cite  ! 

To-day  he  rules  the  streets  :  and  to-morrow  perhaps, — un- 


Blouse  Reigns. 


28P 


less  those  quick-tramping  soldiery  shall  prevent, — he  will  rule 
the  Assembly ! 

And  has  he  not  virtually  ruled  thus  far,  counting  from  the 
flight  of  the  King  ?  Has  he  not  imposed  on  the  city,  and  the 
country,  its  Governors  ?  Has  he  not  created  Commission 
of  Labor  ?  Has  he  not  built  public  shops, — has  he  not  over¬ 
awed  Assembly, — has  he  not  shortened  his  hours- of  work, — 
has  he  not  stood  sentry  at  the  Palace  gates, — has  not  the  fear 
of  him  swayed  all  action  ? 

Has  he  not  been  prince  of  noise,  and  disorder,  and  rioted 
in  everything  but  content,  and  bread  ? 

And  may  we  not  safely  call  this  history  of  the  four  months, 
which  open  upon  our  Battle  Summer — the  Reign  of  Blouse  ? 


End  of  the  Reign  of  Blouse. 


- 


Date  Due 

' 

Form  335— 40M  -6-39— S 

818.32  M681B 

Mitchell _ 


372860 


Battle  Summer:  Being- - 

■■py.qnflP.rint.fl  P*T»gQr|pl  08  Sfi 


813.32  MG 8 IB 


ISSUED  TO 
\r 


7  2a  60 


